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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


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mo 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


It  might  be  of  some  use  to  such  of  our  young  nnMior*  as  are  just 
about  to  begin  their  career  in  letters,  were  I  to  state  the  reasons  which 
governed  me,  some  eighteen  years  ago,  in  giving  this  story,  with 
several  others  of  the  same  family  to  the  public,  anonymously.  But 
I  am  not  prepared,  just  yet,  to  enter  the  confessional.  The  matter  is 
of  a  sort  to  keep.  I  treasure  up  much  curious  literary  history,  the 
fruit  of  a  protracted  experience,  in  reserve  for  a  day  and  volume  of 
greater  leisure  and  deliberation.  Enough  now  to  say  that  I  had  my 
interest  —  ay,  and  my  fun  too  —  in  the  mystery  with  which  the  publi 
cation  of  the  work  was  originally  clothed  ;  and.  if  I  had  one  counsel, 
over  all,  to  impart  to  the  young  beginner,  it  should  be  io  cling  to  the 
anonymous  in  literature  as  long  as  it  will  aiTord  him  a  decent  cover. 
Were  I  now  for  the  first  time,  beginning  my  own  career,  with  the 
possession  of  the  smallest  part  of  my  present  experience,  my  left  hand 
should  never  know  what  my  right  is  doing.  I  should  not  only  keep 
the  public  in  ignorance  of  my  peculiar  labors,  but  I  should,  quite  as 
religiously,  keep  the  secret  from  my  friends  and  associate0.  This  is 
especially  necessary,  if  you  would  be  safe  ;  if  you  have  anything  like 
fair  play  ;  if  you  would  escape  from  a  thousand  impertinences  ;  if  you 

166364 


8  ADVKKTISKMKNT. 

would  hope  for  any  honest  judgments.  There  are  very  few  friends, 
indeed,  to  \\lniin  yen  can  trust  any  of  your  secrets  ;  and  this  of  author 
ship,  is  one  which,  of  all  others,  is  least  easy  to  keep.  Your  friend  is 
vain  on  your  account  —  or  on  his  own  —  which  is  much  the  most  like 
ly —  anil  must  blab,  with  even  slighter  precautions  than  were  taken 
by  the  barber  of  King  .Midas.  Even  if  he  honestly  keeps  your  secret, 
what  is  the  profit  to  you  in  letting  it  out  of  your  own  hands?  You 
must  employ  au  silent  in  finding  your  way  to  the  pres-..  but  this  need 
not  be  one  of  those  whom  you  rank  among  your  friends.  A  business 
transaction  may  be  kept  secret;  but  a  confidence,  gratuitously  given, 
is  rarely  safe.  If  you  reveal  a  secret,  unless  from  the  necessity  of  the 
case,  you  may  reasonably  be  supposed  to  desire  ils  farther  circulation. 
So  friends  mostly  understand  it. —  And,  do  not  deceive  yourself  with 
tae  notion,  that,  by  confiding  to  the  persons  nearest  to  you,  and  who 
most  share  your  sympathies,  you  can  possibly  derive  any  advantage 
from  ii.  They  can  seldom  serve  you  in  any  way.  They  can  give  no 
help  to  a  reputation  which  is  to  be  founded  on  your  own  real  merits; 
no  counsel,  of  any  \alue  in  an  art  which  they  themselves  do  not  pro 
fess,  but  which  they  arestill  very  prone  t»>  teach  ;  exercise  no  influence 
which  is  not  apt,  in  some  way,  to  prove  pernicious  ;  and,  whether 
they  praise  or  blame,  are  generally  the  worst  judges  to  whom  3*011 
coui'l  submit  your  productions.  Go  to  your  cook  in  preference. 
Yoi'r  friends  always  find  your  own  pcrsonalit}'  conflicting,  in 
their  minds,  with  your  pro  1  i  •',! ms.  They  never  separate  you 
from  your  writ  in  rs.  Their  personal  and  local  associations  per 
petually  start  i:p  to  Lalllc  the  free  influence  of  your  works  upon 
their  thoughts  and  hearts ;  and  they  weigh  your  opinions,  or 
your  Imaginations,  or  your  designs  ar.d  inventions,  with  a  con 
tinual  reference  to  i/'»t /•*,' //'.  as  you  appear  in  ordinary  society. 
In  society,  you  are  perhaps  nothing;  silent  as  (Jihbon —  without 
any  of  the  small  change  of  conversation— thai  clinking  <•  invney 


ADVERTISEMENT.  9 

which  best  passes  among  ordinary  people,  and  which  need  not 
be  true  coin,  at  all  —  though  you  may  be  able  to  draw  for  a  thou 
sand  pounds;  and  you  thus  socially  appear  at  great  disadvan 
tage  with  the  very  persons  to  whom  you  confide  your  secret 
and  trustingly  declare  your  labors.  What  can  be  the  result? 
Your  friend,  who  has  known  you  only  in  social  relations,  is  re 
quired  to  feel  surprise  at  your  performances,  or  to  speak  very 
qualifiedly  of  their  merits.  He  is  reduced  to  this  alternative. — 
If  he  admits  to  himself  to  be  surprised,  it  is  equivalent  to  con 
fessing  that  he  has  not  had  the  capacity  to  discover  your  pecu 
liar  endowment.  His  self-esteem  will  oppose  any  such  admission, 
and  he  disparages  it  accordingly.  "  He  has  always  known  that 
you  had  a  certain  talent;"  —  "but  —  it  was  surely  a  little  too 
bold  of  you  to  undertake  a  book!"  And  this  will  be  thought 
and  said  without  any  wilful  desire  to  harm;  simply  from  what 
seems  necessary  to  self-respect  and  the  maintenance  of  old  posi 
tion  and  the  old  social  relations.  And  do  you  not  see,  that,  if 
you  continue  presumptiously  to  write  books,  it  is  possible  — 
barely  possible — that  you  will  outgrow  your  circle?  Every  chatty, 
conceited,  "talking  potato  "  of  it,  is  personally  interested  in  pre 
venting  such  a  growth.  The  instincts  of  mediocrity  are  always 
on  the  watch  and  easily  alarmed;  and  it  perpetually  toils  to 
keep  down  any  growth  which  is  calculated  to  fling  a  shadow 
over  itself.  And  this  is  all  very  natural — not  to  be  complained 
of,  or  quarrelled  with.  The  safest  way  to  avoid  any  of  these 
perils,  and  much  annoyance,  is  to  keep  your  secret,  and  let  your 
book  find  its  way  alone.  Let  the  book  win  the  reputation  before 
you  claim  the  authorship. 

Of  all  this  something  hereafter.  My  own  humble  experi 
ence  in  authorship,  of  some  twenty-five  years  growth,  will  some 
day  furnish  ample  materials  for  a  volume  of  literary  anecdote, 
which,  I  promise  the  reader,  will  not  be  found  less  valuable  for 
its  lessons,  because  .so  well  riV-1-^-1  in  ^rn-^Vo  frequent  mer 
riment.  I  shall  make  lay  uLU-umi,  ..»  more  elaborate  pages,  to 

1* 


10  ADvi:ir:  IM:M  I:NT. 

indicates  the  true  reasons  which  serve  to  keep  the  masses  of  mankind 
from  any  direct  intercourse  with  their  authors: —show  why  society, 
itself,  works  to  this  very  end.  MS  if  moved  by  a  common  necessity, 
and  governed  by  »  po-Viively  s-.«!ish  interest. 

"  RrciiAun  llrunis  "  was  singularly  successful  with  the  public 
in  spite  of  much  hostile  criticism.  It  was  objected,  to  the  story, 
that  it  was  of  too  gloomy  and  savage  a  character.  But  the  en 
tire  aspect  of  a  .sparsely-settled  forest,  or  mountain  country,  is 
grave  and  saddening,  even  where  society  is  stationary  and 
consistent;  and,  where  society  is  only  in  process  of  formation 
the  saddening  and  the  grave  in  its  aspect  arc  but  too  apt  to 
take  on  even  sterner  features,  and  to  grow  into  the  gloomy 
and  ferocious.  It  is  quite  enough,  in  answer  to  the  objection, 
to  say  that  the  general  protraiture  is  not  only  a  truthful  one, 
in  the  present  case,  but  that  the  materials  are  really  of  histor 
ical  character.  The  story  is  a  genuine  chronicle  of  the  border 
region  where  the  scene  is  laid,  and  of  the  period  when  the  date 
is  fixed.  Its  action,  throughout,  is  founded  on  well-known  facts. 
Its  personages  were  real,  living  men;  being,  doing,  and  suffer 
ing,  as  here  reported.  Nothing  has  been  "  extenuate,"  nothing 
has  been  "set  down  in  malice."  A  softer  coloring  might  have 
been  employed,  and,  more  frequently,  scenes  of  repose  might 
have  been  introduced  for  relieving  the  intense  and  fierce 
aspects  of  the  story;  but  these  would  have  been  out  of  place 
in  a  narrative  so  dramatic  of  cast,  and  where  the  action  is  so 
rapid. 

Some  doubts  have  been  expressed  touching  the  actual  exist 
ence  of  the  wild  and  savage  confederation  which  I  have  here 
described;  but  nobody,  at  all  familiar  with  the  region  and  pe 
riod  of  the  story,  can  possibly  entertain  a  question  of  the  his 
tory.  There  are  hundreds  of  persons,  now  living,  who  knew, 
and  well-remember,  all  the  parties;  and  the  general  history  of 
the  outlawry  prevailing  in  the  ^Mississippi  valley,  twenty  years 
ago,  can  hardly  have  escaped  the  knowledge,  in  some  degree 


ADVERTISEMENT  11 

of  every  inhabitant  of  the  southwest,  during  that  period.  I 
knew  Stewart,  the  captor  of  Murrell,  personally ;  ar-d  had  sev 
eral  conferences  with  him,  prior  to  the  publication  of  his  nar 
rative.  I  have  also  met  certain  of  the  dramatis  persona,  during 
my  early  wanderings  in  that  then  wild  country.  The  crimes 
here  recorded  were  then  actually  in  progress  of  commission  ; 
and  some  of  n  y  scenes,  and  several  of  my  persons,  were 
sketched  from  personal  observation,  and  after  the  current  re 
ports  from  the  best  local  authorities.  1  repeat,  briefly,  that 
the  facts  here  employed  arc  beyond  question,  and  still  within 
the  memory  of  living  men.  I  need  scarcely  add,  that,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  I  have  exercised  the  artist's  privilege  of  pla 
cing  my  groups  in  action,  at  my  own  pleasure ;  using  what 
accessories  I  thought  proper,  and  dismissing  others ;  suppress 
ing  the  merely  loathsome ;  bringing  out  the  heroic,  the  bold 
and  attractive,  into  becoming  prominence,  for  dramatic  effect, 
and,  filling  out  the  character,  more  or  less  elaborately,  accord 
ing  to  the  particular  requisitions  of  the  story,  without  regarding 
the  individual  claims  of  the  subordinate.  Let  me  say,  further, 
—  though  this,  perhaps,  is  scarcely  necessary — that,  in  most 
cases  I  have  used  other  than  the  true  nair.es,  and  altered  cer 
tain  localities,  simply  that  living  and  innocent  affections  should  not 
be  unnecessarily  outraged. 

One  other  matter.  It  wil\  be  seen  that  there  is  a  peculiarity 
in  the  arrangement  of  the  story.  The  hero  tells,  not  only  what 
he  himself  performed,  but  supplies  the  events,  even  as  they 
occur,  which  he  yet  derives  from  the  report  of  others.  Though 
quite  unusual,  the  plan  is  yet  strictly  within  the  proprieties  of 
art.  The  reader  can  readily  be  made  to  comprehend  that  the 
hero  writes  after  a  lapse  of  time,  in  which  lie  had  supplied 
himself  with  the  necessary  details,  filling  up  the  gaps  in  his 
own  experience.  I  have  persuaded  myself  that  something  is 
gained  by  such  a  progress,  in  the  more  energetic,  direct  and 
dramatic  character  of  the  story  ;  and  the  rapidity  of  the  action 


12  ADVERTISEMENT. 

is  a  necessary  result,  from  the  exclusion  of  all  circuitous  narra 
tion.  The  hero  and  author,  under  the  old  plan,  become  identi 
cal ;  —  a  union  which  the  reader  will  be  pleased  to  believe 
only  fictitious :  while  the  real  writer  was  unknown,  it  was 
of  little  consequence  whether  the  parties  were  confounded  or 
not.  Even  now,  the  disclaimer  is  hardly  necessary ;  since 
nobody  need  be  mystified  in  the  matter,  unless  it  be  some  invet 
erate  Dogberry,  who  prides  himself  on  the  length  of  his  ears, 
and  insists  upon  the  whole  road  in  his  daily  crossing  of  the 
Pons  Asinorum. 

There  are  two  other  stories — "Border  Beagles,"  and  "Beau- 
champe," — which  belonged  originally  to  this  unnamed  family. 
These  will  succed  to  ' '  Richard  Hurdis "  in  the  present  classifica 
tion  of  my  writings. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


K1CHA1U)  HURDIS. 


CHAPTER    I. 

A  TRUANT  DISPOSITION. 

"  Enough  of  garlands,  of  the  Arcadian  crook. 
And  all  that  Greece  and  Italy  have  sung 
Of  swains  reposing1  myrtle  graves  among ! 
Ours  couch  on  naked  rocks,  will  cross  a  brook. 
Swollen  with  chill  rains,  nor  ever  cast  a  look 
This  way  or  that,  or  give  it  even  a  thought 
More  than  by  smoothest  pathway  may  be  brought 
Into  a  vacant  mind.    Can  written  book 
Teach  what  to  learn  'i "  —  WORDSWORTH. 

OF  the  hardihood  of  the  American  character  there  can  be  no 
doubts,  however  many  there  may  exist  on  the  subject  of  our  good 
manners.  We  ourselves  seem  to  be  sufficiently  conscious  of  our 
security  on  the  former  head,  as  \ve  forbear  insisting  upon  it ;  about 
the  latter,  however,  we  are  sore  and  touchy  enough.  We  never 
trouble  ourselves  to  prove  that  we  are  sufficiently  able  and  willing, 
when  occasion  serves,  to  do  battle,  tooth  and  nail,  for  our  liberties 
and  possessions ;  our  very  existence,  as  a  people,  proves  this  ability 
and  readiness.  But  let  John  Bull  prate  of  our  manners,  and  how  we 
fume  and  fret,  and  what  fierce  action  and  wasteful  indignation  we 
expend  upon  him !  We  are  sure  to  have  the  last  word  in  all  such 
controversies. 

Our  hardihood  comes  from  our  necessities,  and  prompts  our 
enterprise ;  and  the  American  is  bold  in  adventure  to  a  prov- 
§rb.  Where  the  silk-shodden  and  sleek,  citizen  of  the  European 

w 


14  HICllAllD    1IUIIDIS. 

world  would  pause  and  deliberate  to  explore  our  wilds,  we  plunge 
incontinently  forward ;  and  the  forest  falls  before  our  axe,  and  the 
desert  blooms  under  the  providence  of  our  cultivator,  as  if  the  wand 
of  an  enchanter  had  waved  over  them  with  the  rising  of  a  sudden 
moonlight.  Yankee  necessities,  and  southern  and  western  curiosity, 
will  probe  to  the  very  core  of  the  dusky  woods,  and  palsy,  by  the 
exhibition  of  superior  powers,  the  very  souls  of  their  old  possessors. 

I  was  true  to  the  temper  and  the  nature  of  my  countrymen.  The 
place  in  which  I  was  born  could  not  keep  me  always.  With  man- 
hood  —  ay,  long  before  I  was  a  man  —  came  the  desire  to  range. 
My  thoughts  craved  freedom,  my  dreams  prompted  the  same  desire, 
and  the  wandering  spirit  of  our  people,  perpetually  stimulated  by 
the  continual  opening  of  new  regions  and  more  promising  abodes, 
was  working  in  my  heart  with  all  the  volume  of  a  volcano.  Man 
hood  came  and  I  burst  my  shackles.  I  resolved  upon  the  enjoyment 
for  which  I  had  dreamed  and  prayed.  I  had  no  fears,  for  I  was 
stout  of  limb,  bold  of  heart,  prompt  in  the  use  of  my  weapon,  a 
fearless  rider,  and  a  fatal  shot.  Here  are  the  inevitable  possessions 
of  the  southern  and  western  man,  from  Virginia  to  the  gulf,  and 
backward  to  the  Ohio.  I  had  these,  with  little  other  heritage,  from 
my  Alabama  origin,  and  I  was  resolved  to  make  the  most  of  them 
as  soon  as  I  could.  You  may  be  sure  I  lost  no  time  in  putting  my 
resolves  into  execution.  Our  grain-crops  in  Marengo  were  ripe  in 
August,  and  my  heart  bounded  with  the  unfolding  of  the  sheaves. 
I  was  out  of  my  minority  in  the  same  fortunate  season. 

I  waited  for  the  coming  October  only.  I  felt  that  my  pa 
rents  had  now  no  claims  upon  me.  The  customs  of  our  society, 
the  necessities  of  our  modes  of  life,  the  excursive  and  adventur 
ous  habits  of  our  people,  all  justified  a  desire,  which,  in  a  sta 
tionary  community,  would  seem  so  adverse  to  the  nicer  designs 
of  humanity.  But  the  life  in  the  city  has  very  few  standards 
in  common  with  that  of  the  wilderness.  We  acknowledge  few 
at  least.  The  impulses  of  the  latter,  to  our  minds,  are  worth 
any  day  all  the  mercantile  wealth  of  the  former;  and  that  we 
are  sincere  in  this  opinion  may  be  fairly  inferred  from  the  pref 
erence  which  the  forester  will  always  show  for  the  one  over  the 


A   TRUANT   DISPOSITION.  15 

other  region.  Gain  is  no  consideration  for  those  who  live  in  every 
muscle,  and  who  find  enjoyment  from  the  exercise  of  every  limb. 
The  man  who  lives  by  measuring  tape  and  pins  by  the  sixpence 
worth,  may  make  money  by  his  vocation  —  but,  God  help  him! 
he  is  scarce  a  man.  His  veins  expand  not  with  generous  ardor; 
his  muscles  wither  and  vanish,  as  they  are  unemployed  ;  and 
his  soul — it  has  no  emotions  which  prompt  him  to  noble  rest 
lessness,  and  high  and  generous  exertion.  Let  him  keep  at  his 
vocation  if  he  will,  but  he  might,  morally  and  physically,  do  far 
better  if  he  would. 

My  resolves  were  soon  known  to  all  around  me.  They  are 
not  yet  known  to  the  reader.  Well,  they  arc  quickly  told.  The 
freed  youth  at  twenty-one,  for  the  first  time  free,  and  impa 
tient  only  for  the  exercise  of  his  freedom,  has  but  few  purposes, 
and  his  plans  are  usually  single  and  unsophisticated  enough. 
Remember,  I  am  speaking  for  the  forester  and  farmer,  not 
for  the  city  youth  who  is  taught  the  arts  of  trade  from 
the  cradle  up,  and  learns  to  scheme  and  connive  while  yet  he 
clips  the  coral  in  his  boneless  gums.  I  was  literally  going 
abroad,  after  the  fashion  of  the  poorer  youth  of  our  neighbor 
hood,  to  seek  my  fortune.  As  yet  I  had  but  little  of  my  own. 
A  fine  horse,  a  few  hundred  dollars  in  specie,  three  able-bodied 
negroes,  a  good  rifle,  which  carried  eighty  to  the  pound,  and 
was  the  admiration  of  many  who  were  even  better  shots  than 
myself  —  these  made  pretty  much  the  sum  total  of  my  earthly 
possessions.  But  I  thought  not  much  of  this  matter.  To  ram 
ble  a  while,  at  least  until  my  money  was  all  gone,  and  then  to 
take  service  on  shares  with  some  planter  who  had  land  and 
needed  the  help  of  one  like  myself,  was  all  my  secret.  I  had 
heard  of  the  Chickasaw  Bluffs,  and  of  the  still  more  recent  Choc- 

l  taw  purchase  —  at  that  time  a  land  of  promise  only,  as  its  ac 
quisition  had  not  been  effected  —  and  I  was  desirous  of  looking 

Lupon  these  regions.  The  Choctaw  territory  was  reported  to  be 
rich  as  cream ;  and  I  meditated  to  find  out  the  best  spots,  in 
order  to  secure  them  by  entry,  as  soon  as  the  government  could 
effect  the  treaty  which  should  throw  them  into  the  market.  In 
this  ulterior  object  I  was  upheld  by  some  of  our  neighboring 
capitalists,  who  had  urged,  to  some  extent,  the  measure  upon 
me.  I  was  not  unwilling  to  do  this  for  them,  particularly  as  it 


16  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

did  not  interfere  in  my  own  plans  to  follow  up  theirs;  but  my 
own  desire  was  simply  to  stretch  my  limbs  in  freedom  to  trav 
erse  the  prairies,  to  penetrate  the  swamps,  to  behold  the  climb 
ing  hills  and  lovely  hollows  of  the  Choctaw  lands,  and  luxuriate 
in  the  eternal  solitudes  of  their  spacious  forests.  To  feel  my 
freedom  was  now  my  hope.  I  had  been  fettered  long  enough. 

But  do  not  think  me  wanting  in  natural  affection  to  my  pa 
rents  :  far  from  it.  I  effected  no  small  achievement  when  I 
first  resolved  to  leave  my  mother.  It  was  no  pain  to  leave  my 
father.  lie  was  a  man,  a  strong  one  too,  and  could  do  well 
enough  without  me.  But,  without  spoiling  me,  my  mother,  of 
all  her  children,  had  made  me  most  a  favorite.  I  was  her  Rich 
ard  always.  She  considered  me  first,  though  I  had  an  elder 
brother,  and  spoke  of  me  in  particular  when  speaking  of  her 
sons,  and  referred  to  me  for  counsel  in  preferenc  to  all  the  rest. 
This  may  have  been  because  I  was  soon  found  to  be  the  most 
decisive  of  all  my  brothers  ;  and  folks  did  me  the  further  cour 
tesy  to  say,  the  most  thoughtful  too.  My  elder  brother,  John 
Hurdis,  was  too  fond  of  eating  to  be  an  adventurous  man,  and 
too  slow  and  unready  to  be  a  performing  one.  We  often  quar 
relled,  too ;  and  this,  perhaps,  was  another  reason  why  I  should 
desire  to  leave  a  place  from  which  he  was  quite  too  lazy  ever 
to  depart.  Had  he  been  bold  enough  to  go  forth,  I  might  not 
have  been  so  ready  to  do  so,  for  there  were  motives  and  ties  to 
keep  me  at  home,  which  shall  have  developed  as  I  proceed. 

My  father,  though  a  phlegmatic  and  proud  man,  showred 
much  more  emotion  at  the  declaration  of  my  resolve  to  teave 
him,  than  I  had  ever  expected.  His  emotion  arose,  not  so 
much  from  the  love  he  bore  me,  as  from  the  loss  which  lie  was 
about  to  sustain  by  my  departure.  I  had  been  his  best  negro, 
and  he  confessed  it.  Night  and  day,  without  complaint,  my  time 
had  been  almost  entirely  devoted  to  his  service,  and  his  crops 
had  never  been  thalf  so  good  as  when  I  had  directed  the  labor 
of  his  force,  and  regulated  his  resources.  My  brother  John 
had  virtually  given  up  to  me  the  entire  management,  and  my 
father  was  too  well  satisfied  with  the  fruits  of  the  change  to 
make  any  objection.  My  resolution  to  leave  him  now,  once 
more  threw  the  business  of  the  plantation  upon  John ;  and  his 
incompetence,  the  result  of  his  inertness  ana  ooesity,  rather 


A  TRUANT  DISPOSITION.  17 

than  of  any  deficiency  of  mind,  was  sorely  apprehended  by  the 
old  man  I  felt  this  to  be  the  strongest  argument  against  my 
departure.  But  was  I  always  to  be  the  slave  I  had  been? 
Was  I  always  to  watch  peas  and  potatoes,  corn  and  cotton, 
without  even  the  poor  satisfaction  of  choosing  the  spot  where  it 
would  please  me  best  to  watch  them?  This  reflection  strength 
ened  me  in  my  resolves,  and  answered  my  father.  In  answer  to 
the  expostulation  of  ray  mother,  I  made  a  promise,  which  in  part 
consoled  her. 

"  I  will  go  but  for  a  few  months,  mother —  for  the  winter  only; 
you  will  see  me  back  in  spring;  and  then  if  father  and  myself  can 
come  to  anything  like  terms,  I  will  stay  and  superintend  for  him, 
as  I  have  done  before." 

'  Terms,  Richard!  "  were  the  old  lady's  words  in  reply;  "what 
terms  would  you  have,  my  son,  that  he  will  not  agree  to,  so  that 
they  be  in  reason?  He  will  give  you  one-fifth  —  I  will  answer  for 
it,  Richard  —  and  that  ought  to  be  quite  enough  to  satisfy  any 
one." 

"  More  than  enough,  mother;  more  than  I  ask  or  expect. 
But  I  can  not  now  agree  even  to  that.  I  must  see  the  world 
a  while;  travel  about;  and  if,  at  the  end  of  the  winter,  I  see  no 
better  place  —  no  place,  I  mean,  which  I  could  better  like  to  live 
in  —  why  then  I  will  come  back,  as  I  tell  you,  and  go  to  work  as 
usual." 

There  was  some  little  indignation  in  the  old  lady's  answer: 

"Better  place!  like  better  to  live  in!  Why,  Richard,  what 
has  come  over  you?  Are  not  the  place  you  were  born  in,  and 
the  parents  who  bred  you,  and  the  people  whom  you  have  lived 
with  all  your  life — are  they  not  good  enough  for  you,  that  you 
must  come  to  me  at  this  time  of  day,  and  talk  about  better 
places,  and  all  such  stuff?  Really,  my  son,  you  forget  yourself 
to  speak  in  this  manner.  As  if  everything  was  not  good  enough 
for  you  here! " 

"Good  enougn,  mother,"  I  answered  gloomily;  "  good  enough ; 
perhaps  —  I  deny  it  not;  and  yet  not  exactly  to  my  liking.  I 
am  not  pleased  to  waste  my  life  as  I  do  at  present.  I  am  not 
satisfied  that  I  do  myself  justice.  I  feel  a  want  in  my  mind, 
and  an  impatience  at  my  heart;  a  thirst  which  I  can  not  ex 
plain  to  you,  and  which,  while  here,  I  can  not  quench.  I  must 


18  RICHAKD  HURDIS. 

go  elsewhere — I  must  fix  my  eyes  on  other  objects.  You  for 
get,  too,  that  I  hava  been  repulsed,  rejected  —  though  you  told 
me  I  should  not  be  —  where  I  had  set  my  heart;  and  that  the 
boon  has  been  given  to  another,  for  which  I  had  struggled  long, 
and  for  a  long  season  had  hoped  to  attain.  Can  you  wonder 
that  I  should  seek  to  go  abroad,  even  were  I  not  moved  by  a 
natural  desire  at  my  time  of  life  to  see  some  little  of  the 
world?" 

There  were  some  portions  of  my  reply  which  were  conclusive,  and 
to  which  my  mother  did  not  venture  any  answer;  but  nay  last 
remark  suggested  the  tenor  of  a  response  which  she  did  not  pause  to 
make. 

''But  what  can  you  see  of  the  world,  my  son,  among  the  wild 
places  to  which  you  think  to  go?  What  can  you  see  at  the  Bluffs, 
or  down  by  the  Yazoo  but  woods  and  Indians?  Besides,  Richard, 
the  Choctaws  are  said  to  be  troublesome  now  in  the  nation.  Old 
Mooshoolatubbe  and  La  Fleur  are  going  to  fight,  and  it  will  be  dan 
gerous  travelling." 

"The  very  thing,  mother,"  was  my  hasty  reply.  "I  will  take 
side  with  La  Fleur,  and  when  we  have  to  fight  Mooshoolatubbe,  get 
enough  land  for  my  reward,  to  commence  business  for  myself. 
That  last  speech  of  yours,  mother,  is  conclusive  in  my  favor.  I  will 
be  a  rich  man  yet;  and  then"  —  in  the  bitterness  of  a  disappointed 
spirit  I  spoke — "and  then,  mother,  we  will  see  whether  John 
Hurdis  is  a  better  man  with  thirty  negroes  than  Richard  Hurdis  with 
but  three. 

"  Why,  who  says  he  is,  my  son?"  demanded  my  mother  with  a 
tenderness  of  accent  which  increased  while  she  spoke,  and  with  eyes 
that  filled  with  tears  in  the  same  instant. 

My  heart  told  me  I  was  wrong,  but  I  could  not  forbear  the  reply 
that  rose  to  my  lips. 

"Mary  Easterby,"  were  the  two  words  which  made  my  only 
answer. 

"Richard,  Richard!"  exclaimed  the  old  lady,  "you  envy  your 
brother. " 

"Envy  him!  No!  I  envy  him  nothing,  not  even  his  better 
fortune.  Let  him  wear  what  he  has  won,  whether  he  be  worthy 
of  it  or  not.  If,  knowing  me,  she  prefers  him,  be  it  so.  She 
is  not  the  woman  for  me.  I  envy  not  his  possessions;  neither 


A   TRUAXT   DISPOSITION.  19 

his  wife,  nor  bis  servant,  his  ox,  nor  his  ass.  It  vexes  me  that 
I  have  been  mistaken,  mother,  both  in  her,  and  in  him  ;  but, 
thank  Heaven  !  I  envy  neither.  I  am  not  humble  enough  for 
that." 

"  My  dear  Richard,  you  know  that  I  have  always  sought  to 
make  you  happy.  It  grieves  me  that  you  are  not  so.  What  would 
you  have  me  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  Let  me  go  forth  in  peace.  Say  nothing  to  my  father  to  pre 
vent  it.  Seem  to  be  satisfied  with  my  departure  yourself.  I  will  try 
to  please  you  better  when  I  return." 

"  You  ask  too  much,  my  son  ;  but  I  will  try.  I  will  do  anything 
for  you,  if  you  will  only  think  and  speak  less  scorfully  of  your  elder 
brother." 

"And  what  are  my  thoughts  and  words  to  him,  mother  ?  lie 
feels  them  not  —  they  do  not  touch  him.  Is  he  not  my  elder  brother? 
Has  he  not  all  ?  The  favor  of  our  grandmother  gave  him  wealth, 
and  with  his  wealth,  and  from  his  wealth,  comes  the  favor  of 
Mary  Easterb}-." 

"  You  do  her  wrong  !  "  said  my  mother. 

"Do  I,  indeed?"  I  answered  biiterly.  "What!  she  takes 
him  then  for  his  better  person,  his  nobler  thoughts,  his  boldness, 
his  industry,  and  the  thousand  other  manly  qualities,  so  winning 
in  a  woman's  eyes,  which  I  have  not,  but  which  he  possesses  in 
such  plenty  ?  Is  it  this  that  you  would  say,  my  mother  ?  Say  it 
then  if  you  can  ;  but  well  I  know  you  must  be  silent.  You  can 
not  speak,  mother,  and  speak  thus.  For  what  then  has  Mary 
Easterby  preferred  John  Ilurdis?  God  forgive  me  if  I  do  her 
wrong,  and  Heaven's  mercy  to  her  if  she  wrongs  herself  and  me. 
At  one  time  I  thought  she  loved  me,  and  I  showed  her  some  like 
follies.  I  will  not  say  that  she  has  not  made  me  suffer  ;  but  I  rejoice 
that  I  can  suffer  like  a  man.  Let  me  go  from  you  in  quiet,  dear 
mother  ;  urge  my  departure,  and  believe,  as  I  think,  that  it  will  be 
for  the  benefit  of  all." 

My  father's  entrance  interrupted  a  conversation,  which  neither  of 
us  was  disposed  readily  to  assume. 


20  RICHARD 


CHAPTER   II. 

MARY    K  AST  Kit  BY. 

"TVr*>  was  but  one 

In  whom  my  heart  took  pleasure  amongst  women; 
()ii»  in  I  lie  whole  creation;  an«l  in  her 
Y»»u  u.iivd  to  be  my  rival." — Second  Maiden  a  Tragedy. 

Tin-',  reader  lias  discovered  my  secret.  I  bad  long  loved 
Mary  Kastcrby,  and  without  knowing  it.  Tbe  knowledge 
came  to  me  at  the  moment  when  I  ceased  to  hone.  My  brother 
was  my  rival,  and,  whatever  were  the  charms  he  used,  my  suc 
cessful  rival.  This  may  have  given  bitterness  to  the  feeling  of 
contempt  witli  which  his  own  feebleness  of  character  had  taught 
me  to  regard  him.  It  certainly  took  nothing  from  the  barrier 
which  circumstances  and  time  had  set  up  as  a  wall  between  us 
Mary  Kasterby  had  grown  up  beside  me.  1  had  known  no 
other  companion  among  her  sex.  We  had  played  together 
from  infancy,  and  I  had  been  taught  to  believe,  when  I  came 
to  know  the  situation  of  my  own  heart,  and  to  inquire  into  that 
of  hers,  that  she  loved  me.  If  she  did  not,  I  deceived  myself 
most  wofully  ;  but  such  self-deception  is  no  uncommon  practice 
with  the  young  of  my  age,  and  sanguine  temperament.  I 
would  not  dwell  upon  her  charms  could  I  avoid  it;  y(>t  though 
I  speak  of,  I  should  fail  to  describe  and  do  not  hope  to  do 
them  justice.  She  was  younger  by  three  years  than  myself, 
and  no  less  beautiful  than  young.  Her  person  was  tall,  but  not 
slight  ;  it  was  too  finely  proportioned  to  make  her  seem  tall. 
ami  grace  was  the  natural  result,  not  less  of  her  physical  sym 
uietry,  than  of  her  maiden  taste,  and  swert  consideraleness  of 
chiv-acter  Her  eye  \\as  large',  and  blue,  her  check  not  so  round 
as  hill,  and  its  rich  rosy  color  almost  vied  with  that  which 
crimsoned  the  pulpy  outline  of  ber  lovely  mouth.  Her  h'lir 


MARY   EASTERBY.  21 

was  of  a  dark  brown,  and  she  wore  it  gathered  up  simply  in 
volume  behind,  a  few  stray  tresses  only  being  suffered  to  escape 
from  bondage  at  the  sides,  to  attest,  as  it  were,  the  bountiful 
luxuriance  with  which  nature  had  endowed  her.  See  these 
tresses  on  her  round  wM'e  neck,  and  let  your  eye  trace  them 
in  their  progress  to  the  swelling  bosom  on  which  they  some 
times  rested  ;  and  you  may  conceive  something  of  those  charms, 
which  I  shall  not  seek  further  to  describe. 

Though  a  dweller  in  the  woods  all  her  life,  her  mind  and 
taste  had  not  been  icft  without  due  cultivatio-n.  Her  father  had 
been  taught  in  one  of  the  elder  states,  one  of  the  old  thirteen, 
and  he  carried  many  of  the  refinements  of  city  life  with  him 
hit**  the  wilderness.  Books  she  had  in  abundance,  and  these 
tail"-1  t  her  everything  of  those  old  communities,  which  she  had 
never  yet  been  permitted  to  see.  Her  natural  quickness  of 
intellect,  her  prompt  appreciation  of  what  she  read,  enabled 
her  at  an  early  period  duly  to  estimate  those  conventional  and 
improved  forms  of  soci;il  life  to  which  her  books  perpetually 
referred,  and  which  belong  only  to  stationary  abodes,  where 
wealth  brings  leisure,  and  leisure  provokes  refinement.  With 
such  aid,  Mary  Easterhy  soon  stood  alone  among  the  neighbor 
ing  damsels.  Her  air,  mar.ner,  conversation,  even  dress,  were 
not  only  different  from,  but  more  becoming,  than  those  of  her 
associates.  She  spoke  with  the  ease  and  freedom  of  one  bred 
up  in  the  most  assured  society  ;  and  thought  with  a  mind  filled 
with  standards  which  are  not  often  to  be  met  with  in  an  insu 
lated  and  unfrequented  community.  In  short  she  was  one  of 
those  beings  such  as  lift  the  class  to  which  they  belong;  such 
as  represent  rather  .1  future  than  a  present  generation ;  and 
such  as,  by  superior  grasp  of  judgment  or  of  genius,  prepare 
the  way  for,  and  guide  the  aims  of  all  the  rest. 

It  were  folly  to   dwell  upon  her  excellences,  but  that  my 
narration  may  depend   upon   their  development.     They  wera 
powerful  enough  with  me ;    and   my  heart  felt,  ere  my  mind 
could  analyze  them.     A  boy's  heart,  particularly  one  who  i» 
the  unsophisticated  occupant  of  the  forests,  having  few  other 
teachers,  is  no  sluggish  and  selfish  creation,  and  mine  was  soo 
filled  with  Mary  Easterby,  and  all  its  hopes  and  desires  d*. 
pended  upon  hers  for  their  fulK'rnent.     It  was  the  thought  : 


22  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

all,  that  hers  \vas  not  loss  dependent  upon  mine;  and  when  the 
increasing  intimacy  of  the  maiden  with  my  brother,  and  his 
confident  demeanor  toward  herself  and  parents,  led  us  all  to 
regard  him  as  the  posscs.vrr  of  those  affections  which  every 
body  had  supposed  to  be  mine,  the  matter  was  no  less  surprising 
to  all  than  it  was,  for  a  season,  bitter  and  overwhelming  to  me. 
I  could  have  throttled  my  more  fortunate  brother  —  brother 
though  he  was  —  in  the  first  moment  of  my  rage  at  this  discov 
ery  ;  and  all  my  love  for  Mary  did  not  save  her  from  sundry 
unmanly  denunciations  which  I  will  not  now  venture  to  repeat. 
1  did  not  utter  these  denunciations  in  her  ears  though  I  uttered 
them  aloud.  They  reached  her  ears,  however,  and  the  medium 
of  communication  was  John  Hurdis.  This  last  baseness  aroused 
me  to  open  rage  against  him.  I  told  him  to  his  teeth  he  was  a 
scoundrel ;  and  he  bore  with  the  imputation,  and  spoke  of  our 
blood  connection  as  the  reason  for  his  forbearance  to  resent  an 
indignity  which,  agreeably  to  our  modes  of  thinking,  could  only 
be  atoned  for  by  blood. 

"Brother,  indeed!"  I  exclaimed  furiously  in  reply.  "No, 
John  Jlurdis,  you  are  no  brother  of  mine,  though  our  father 
and  mother  be  the  same.  I  acknowledge  no  relationship  be 
tween  us.  We  are  of  a  different  family  —  of  far-removed  and 
foreign  natures.  My  kindred  shall  never  be  found  among  the 
base;  and  from  this  moment  I  renounce  all  kindred  with  you. 
Henceforth,  we  know  nothing  of  each  other  only  so  far  as  it  may 
be  necessary  to  keep  from  giving  pain  and  offence  to  our  parents. 
But  we  shall  not  be  long  under  that  restraint.  I  will  shortly 
leave  you  to  yourself,  to  your  conquests,  and  the  undisturbed 
enjoyment  of  that  happiness  which  you  have  toiled  for  so  base 
ly  at  the  expense  of  mine." 

He  would  have  explained  and  expostulated,  but  I  refused  to 
hear  him.  He  proffered  me  his  hand,  but  with  a  violent  blow 
of  my  own,  I  struck  it  down,  and  turned  my  shoulder  upon  him. 
It  was  thus,  in  such  relationship,  that  we  stood,  when  I  announced 
to  my  mother  my  intention  to  leave  the  family.  We  barely  spoke 
to  one  another  when  speech  was  absolutely  unavoidable,  and  it 
was  soon  known  to  Mary  Easterby,  not  less  than  to  the  persona 
of  my  own  household,  that  our  hearts  were  lifted  in  enmity 
against  each  other.  She  seized  an  early  opportunity  and  spok« 


MARY    EASTERBY.  28 

to  me  on  the  subject.  Either  she  mistook  the  nature  of  oui 
quarrel,  or  the  character  of  my  affections.  Yet  how  she  could 
have  mistaken  the  latter,  or  misunderstood  the  former,  I  can  not 
imagine.  Yet  she  did  so. 

"  Richard,  they  say  you  have  quarrelled  with  your  brother." 

"Does  lie  say  it  —  does  John  Hurdis  say  it,  Mary?"  was  my 
reply. 

She  paused  and  hesitated.  I  pressed  the  question  with  more 
earnestness  as  I  beheld  her  hesitation.  She  strove  to  speak  with 
calmness,  but  was  not  altogether  successful.  Her  voice  trembled 
as  she  replied  : — 

"lie  does  not,  Richard  —  not  in  words;  but  I  have  inferred 
it  from  what  he  does  say,  and  from  the  fact  that  he  has  said  s< 
little.  He  seemed  unwilling  to  tell  me  anything." 

"_IIe  is  wise,"  I  replied  bitterly ;  "  he  is  very  wise ;  but  it  is 
late.  Better  he  had  been  thus  taciturn  always!" 

"  Why  speak  you  so,  Richard  ?"  she  continued  ;  "  why  are 
you  thus  violent  against  your  brother  ?  What  has  he  done  to 
vex  you  to  this  pass?  Let  me  hear  your  complaint." 

"Complaint!  1  have  none.  You  mistake  me,  Mary — I  com 
plain  not.  I  complain  of  nobody.  If  I  can  not  right  my  own 
wrongs,  at  least,  I  will  not  complain  of  them." 

"  Oh,  be  not  so  proud,  Richard  !  be  not  so  proud !"  she  re 
plied  earnestly;  and  her  long  white  fingers  rested  upon  my 
wrist  for  an  instant,  and  were  as  instantly  withdrawn.  But 
that  one  touch  was  enough  to  thrill  to  the  bone.  It  was  my 
turn  to  tremble.  She  continued  —  "There  is  no  wisdom  in  this 
pride  of  yours,  Richard ;  it  is  unbecoming  in  such  frail  beings 
as  we  are,  and  it  will  be  fatal  to  your  happiness." 

"  Happiness  ! — my  happiness  !  Ah,  Mary,  if  it  be  my  pride 
only  which  is  to  be  fatal  to  my  happiness,  then  I  am  secure. 
But  I  fear  not  that.  My  pride  is  my  hope  now,  my  strength. 
It  protects  me  —  it  shields  my  heart  from  my  own  weakness." 

She  looked  in  my  face  with  glances  of  the  most  earnest  in 
quiry  for  a  little  while,  and  then  spoke  as  follows  : — 

"  Richard,  there  is  something  now-a-days  about  you  which  I 
do  not  exactly  understand.  You  utter  yourself  in  a  language 
which  is  strange  to  me,  and  your  manners  have  become  strange  \ 
Why  is  this  —  what  is  the  matter?" 


24  P. in fART)    HURPT9. 

"  Xay,  Mary;  but  that  should  he  my  question  The  change 
tfe  in  yon,  not  inc.  I  am  conscious  of  r.o  change  such  as  you 
speak  of.  But  a  truce  to  this.  1  see  yon  are  troubled.  Let  us 
talk  of  other  vhiu^s." 

"I  arn  not  troubled,  Richard,  except  on  your  account.  But 
as  you  desire  it,  let  us  talk  of  other  things;  and,  to  return,  why 
this  hostility  between  yourself  and  your  brother?" 

"Let  Mm  tell  you.  Demand  it  of  him,  Mary;  he  will  better 
tell  the  story  than  I,  as  it  will  probably  sound  ir.ore  t")  his  cred 
it  than  to  mine,  in  your  oars  !" 

"  I  know  not  that,"  she  replied  ;  "  and  know  not  M*hy  yon 
should  think  so,  Richard,  unless  you  are  conscious  of  having 
done  wrong;  and,  if  thus  conscious,  the  cure  i.«  in  your  own 
hands." 

"What!"  I  exclaimed  impetuously.  "You  would  have  me 
go  on  my  knees  to  John  Ilurdis,  and  humbly  ask  his  pardoii, 
for  denouncing  him  as  a  scoundrel  " 

"  You  have  not  done  this,  Richard  ?"  was  her  sudden  ir.-quiry, 
silencing  me  in  the  middle  of  my  hurried  and  thoughtless  speech. 
The  error  was  committed,  and  I  had  only  to  avow  the  truth. 
Gloomily  I  did  so,  ard  with  a  sort  of  sullen  ferocity  that  must 
have  savored  very  much  of  the  expression  of  a  wolf  goaded  to 
the  verge  of  his  den  by  the  spear  of  the  hunter. 

"Ay,  hut  I  have,  Mary  Kasterby  !  1  have  called  John  Ilur 
dis  a  scoundrel,  and  only  wonder  that  he  told  you  not  this  along 
with  the  rest  of  my  misdoings  which  he  has  been  careful  to  re 
late  to  you.  Perhaps,  he  might  have  done  so,  had  the  story 
spoken  more  favorably  for  his  manhood  " 

We  had  been  sitting  together  by  the  window  while  the  con 
versation  proceeded ;  but  at  this  stage  of  it,  she  arose,  crossed 
dhe  apartment  slowly,  lingerer  for  a  brief  space  at  an  opposite 
window,  then  quietly  returned  to  her  scat.  But  her  eyes  gave 
proof  of  the  big  tears  that  had  been  gathering  in  them. 

"  Richard,  I  fear  that  you  are  doing  me,  and  your  brother 
both  injustice.  You  are  too  quick,  too  prompt  to  imagine 
wrong,  and  too  ready  to  act  upon  your  imaginings.  You  speak 
to  me  with  the  tone  of  one  who  has  cause  of  complaint--  of  an 
ger  !  Your  eyes  have  an  expression  of  rebuke  which  is  pain- 
^il  to  m^  ~*""1  T  think  unjust.  Your  words  are  sb<»rp,  an<? 


MABY  EASTERBY.  25 

sometimes  hostile  and  unfriendly.     You  arc  not  what  you  were. 
Richard  —  in  truth,  yon  arc  not." 

"  Indeed  !  do  you  think  so.  Mary  ?" 

"  Ay,  I  do.  Toll  me,  Richard,  hi  what  have  I  done  you 
wtong  ]  Where  is  my  error  ?  Of  what  do  you  complain  ?" 

"Iia\e  I  not  told  yon,  Mary,  Jiat  I  have  no  cause  of  com 
plaint —  that  I  hold  it  unmanly  to  complain?  And  wherefore 
should  I  complain  of  you  ?  —  I  have  no  right.  You  are  mistresf 
of  your  own  words  and  actions  so  far  as  Richard  Ilurdis  is  con 
corned." 

The  stubborn  pride  of  my  spirit  was  predominant,  and  the 
moment  of  explanation  had  gone  by.  A  slight  sigh  escaped 
her  lips  as  she  replied  — 

"  You  are  not  what  you  used  to  be,  Richard  ;  but  I  know  not 
what  has  changed  you." 

She  had  spoken  soothly  —  I  was  not  what  I  was.  A  dark 
change  had  come  upon  me — a  gloomy  shadow  had  passed  over 
my  spirit,  chilling  its  natural  warmth  and  clouding  its  glory 
The  first  freshness  of  my  heart's  feelings  was  rapidly  passing 
from  me.  I  had  worshipped  fruitlessly,  if  not  unwisely;  and, 
if  the  deity  of  my  adoration  was  not  unworthy  of  its  tribute,  it 
gave  back  no  response  of  favor  to  the  prayer  of  the  supplicant, 

Such  were  my  thoughts  —  such  the  conviction  which  was 
driving  me  into  banishment.  For  banishment  it  was  —  utter, 
irrevocable  banishment,  which  I  then  meditated.  The  promise 
given  to  my  mother  was  meant  to  soothe  her  heart,  and  silence 
her  entreaties.  I  meant  never  to  return.  In  deeper  forests 
—  in  a  wilder  home — I  had  resolved  to  choose  me  ut  an 
abode,  which,  if  it  had  fewer  attractions,  had,  at  the  same  time, 
fewer  trials  for  a  bosom  vexed  like  mine.  I  feared  not  the  si 
lence  and  the  loneliness  of  the  Indian  habitations,  when  those 
to  which  I  had  been  accustomed,  had  become,  in  some  respects, 
so  tvjarful.  I  dreaded  no  loneliness  so  much  as  that  of  my  own 
heart,  which,  having  devoted  itself  exclusively  to  another,  wag 
denied  the  communion  which  it  sought. 


26  RICHARD    HURDIS. 


CHAPTER    III. 

COMRADE    IN    EXILE. 

'  Now  go  we  in  content 
To  liberty,  and  not  to  banishment." — As  You  I-ike  ft. 

"  Brothers  in  exile, 

Hath  not  old  custom  made  this  life  more  sr/eel 
Than  that  of  painted  pomp?" — Same. 

WAS  I  right  in  such  a  resolution  ?  Was  it  proper  in  me,  be 
cause  one  had  made  me  desolate,  to  make  others — and  not  that 
one  —  equally  so?  I  know  not.  1  inquired  not  thus  at  the 
time,  and  the  question  is  unnecessary  now.  My  resolution  wag 
taken  at  a  leap.  It  was  a  resolution  made  by  my  feeKiigs,  in 
which  my  thoughts  had  little  part.  And  yet  I  reasoned  upon 
it,  and  gave  stubborn  arguments  in  its  defence  to  others.  It  is 
btrange  how  earnestly  the  mind  will  devote  itself  to  the  exac 
tions  of  the  blood,  and  cog,  and  connive,  and  cavil,  in  compli 
ance  with  the  appetites  and  impulses  of  the  body.  The  animal 
is  no  small  despot  when  it  begins  to  sway. 

In  leaving  home,  however,  and  going  abroad  among  strangers 
I  did  not  purpose  to  go  alone.  My  arguments,  which  had  nol 
moved  myself,  had  their  influence  upon  another.  A  young  man 
of  the  neighborhood,  about  my  own  age,  with  whom  I  had  been 
long  intimate,  consented  to  go  along  with  me.  His  situation 
and  motives  were  alike  different  from  mine.  He  was  not  only 
a  wealthy  man,  in  the  estimation  of  the  country,  but  he  was  for 
tunate  —  perhaps  because  he  was  wealthy — in  the  favor  and  re 
gard  of  a  young  damsel  to  whom  he  had  proffered  vows  which 
had  proved  acceptable.  He  was  an  accepted  man,  fortunate  or 
not;  and  in  this  paiticular  of  fortune  he  differed  from  me  as 
widely  as  in  his  moneyed  concerns.  His  property  consisted  in 
negroes  and  ready  money.  He  had  forty  of  the  former,  *nd 


COMRADE    IN    KXILE.  27 

Some  three  tiiuusand  dollars,  part  in  specie,  but  the  greater 
part  in  United  States  Lr.nk  notes,  then  considered  quite  as 
good.  Jle  wanted  lands,  and  to  supply  this  want  was  the  chief 
motive  for  his  resolve,  to  set  out  with  me.  The  damsel  to  whom 
he  was  hetrothed  was  poor,  hut  she  wore  none  of  the  deport 
ment  of  poverty.  The  neighborhood  thought  her  proud."  I 
can  not  say  that  I  thought  with  them.  She  was  more  reserved 
than  young  women  commonly,  at  her  time  of  life  —  more  digui 
tied,  thoughtful,  and,  perhaps,  more  prudent.  She  was  rathe) 
pensive  in  her  manner;  and  yet  there  was  a  quickness  of  move 
rnent  in  the  flashing  of  her  dark  black  eye,  that  bespoke  suddev 
resolve,  and  a  latent  character  which  needed  but  the  stroke  or 
trial  and  the  collision  of  necessity  to  give  forth  unquenchable 
flame.  She  said  little;  but  that  little,  when  spoken,  was  ever 
1  the  point  and  purpose,  and  seemed  unavoidable.  Yet,  though 
thus  taciturn  in  language,  there  was  speech  in  every  movement 
Df  her  eyes  —  in  all  the  play  of  her  intelligent  and  remarkable 
features.  She  was  not  beautiful  —  scarcely  pretty,  if  you  ex 
amined  her  face  with  a  design  to  see  its  charms.  But  few  ever 
looked  at  her  with  such  an  object.  The  character  which  spoke 
in  her  countenance  was  enough,  and  you  forbore  to  look  for 
other  beauties.  Emmelhie  Walker  was  a  thinking  and  intelli 
gent  creature,  and  her  mind  pre-occupied  yours  at  a  glance,  and 
satisfied  you  with  her,  without  suffering  you  to  look  farther. 
You  felt  not  as  when  gazing  on  mere  beauty  —  you  felt  that 
there  was  more  to  be  seen  than  was  seen  —  that  she  had  a  re 
source  of  wealth  beyond  wealth,  and  which,  like  the  gift  of  the 
fairy, though  worthless  in  its  outward  seeming  was  yet  inex 
haustible  in  its  supplies. 

Her  lover,  though  a  youth  of  good  sense,  and  very  fair  edu 
cation,  was  not  a  man  of  mind.  Jle  was  a  man  to  memorize 
and  repeat,  not  to  reason  and  originate.  He  could  follow 
promptly,  but  he  would  not  do  to  lead.  lie  lacked  the  think 
ing  organs,  and  admired  his  betrothed  the  more,  as  he  discov 
ercd  that  she  was  possessed  of  a  readiness,  the  want  of  which 
ne  had  deplored  in  himsch.  It  is  no  un frequent  thing  with  us 
to  admire  a  quality  rather  because  of  our  own  lack  of  it,  than 
because  of  its  intrinsic  value. 

William  Carrington  was  not  without  his  virtues  of  inind,  as 


28  RICHARD    IIURDIS. 

well  as  of  heart.  Ho.  was  temperate  in  his  deportment,  forbcai 
ing  in  his  prejudices,  modest  in  correspondence  with  Iris  want 
of  originality,  and  earnest  in  ins  desire  of  improvement.  His 
disposition  was  gentle  and  playful.  lie  laughed  too  readily, 
perhaps;  and  his  confidence  was  quite  as  free  and  unrestrain 
able  as  his  mirth.  While  my  nature,  helped  by  my  experi 
ence,  perhaps,  made  me  jealous,  watchful,  and  suspicious,  \r&, 
on  the  other  hand,  taught  him  to  believe  readily,  to  trust  fear 
lessly,  and  to  derive  but  little  value  even  from  his  own  experi 
ence  of  injustice.  We  were  not  unfit  foils,  and  consequently 
not  unseemly  companions  for  one  another. 

Carrington  was  seeking  lands,  and  his  intention  was  to  be  at 
the  land-sale  in  Chocchuma,  and  to  purchase  with  the  first  tit- 
ting  opportunity.  Having  bought,  he  proposed  to  hurry  back 
to  Marengo,  marry,  and  set  forth  in  the  spring  of  the  ensuing 
year  for  his  new  home.  His  plans  were  all  marked  out,  and 
his  happiness  almost  at  hand.  Kmmeline  offered  no  objection 
to  his  arrangements,  and  showed  no  womanly  weakness  at  his 
preparations  for  departure.  She  gave  my  hand  a  gentle  pres 
sure  when  I  bade  her  farewell,  and  simply  begged  us  to  take 
care  of  each  other.  I  did  not  witness  the  separation  between 
the  lovers,  but  I  am  convinced  that  she  exhibited  far  less,  yet 
felt  much  more  than  William,  and  that,  after  the  parting,  he 
laughed  out  aloud  much  the  soonest  of  the  two.  Not  that  he 
did  not  love  her.  He  loved  quite  as  fervently  as  it  was  in  his 
nature  to  love;  but  his  heart  was  of  lighter  make  and  of  less 
earnest  temper  than  hers.  lie  could  be  won  by  new  colors  to 
a  forgetfulness  of  the  cloud  which  had  darkened  his  spirits,  and 
the  moan  of  his  anliction  was  soon  forgotten  in  gayer  and  newer 
, rounds.  Not  so  with  her.  If  she  did  not  moan  aloud,  she  could 
brood  in  secret,  like  the  dove  upon  the  blasted  bough,  over  her 
own  heart,,  and,  watching  its  throbs,  forget  that  the  world  belJ 
it  no  propriety  to  \\  eep. 


THE   HOSTILE   GRAPPLB.  28 


CHAPTER    IV. 

TilK    HOSTILE    URAPPLK. 

('••i"r.    Know  you  before  whom,  sir? 

Orlaiulc.  Ay,  Letter  than  lie  I  am  before  knows  me.  I  know  you  arc-  Uij 
elikr  brother;  MIH),  in  the  gentle  condition  of  blood,  you  should  so  knovt 
me.  The  courtesy  of  tuitions  allows  you  my  better,  in  that  you  are  the  first 
oorn  ;  but  the  same  tradition  dikes  not  nway  my  blood  were  there  twenty 
brothers  betwixt  us.  I  have  as  much  of  my  father  in  me  as  you;  albeit,  I 
confess  your  coining  before  me  is  nearer  to  hie  reverence. 

Oliver.    What,  b,.y? 

Orlninlo.   ('..Hie,  eouie.  elder  brother,  you  nre  too  young  in  this. 

Ofii't-r.    Wilt  1)1. .u  l;.y  hands  ,.n  me,  villain  f 

()rlnn(/<>.  I  am  n»  villain:  weit  thoii  not  my  brother,  I  would  not  tak- 
this  hand  from  ihv  throat,  till  this  other  hud  pulled  out  thy  tongue  for  sav 
iiiij  so!  A*  You  I.ik<  It. 

Tin-;  time  approached  which  had  been  appointed  for  our  de 
parture,  and  the  increased  beating  of  my  heart  warned  me  o\ 
some  trial-scenes  yet  to  he  undergone.  I  knew  that  I  slioulc 
have  little,  difficulty  at  parting  wi;h  my  father,  and  much  less, 
with  iin'  more  fortunate  brother.  The  jiartini:  from  my  mothei 
was  a  different  matter,  as,  kn«\vinj_r  \vell  tlie  lo\e  which  sht 
bore  me,  I  was  already  prepared  fur  her  sorrow,  if  not  agony 
when  bidding  me  farewell.  Decides,  revolving  in  my  secret 
mind  never  to  return,  I  had  a  fetding  of  compunction  for  my 
meditated  hypocrisy,  \\hich  added  the  annoyance  of  shame  U-. 
my  own  s»rro\v  on  the.  occasion.  I  did  not  think  less  of  tht 
final  separation  from  Mary  Easterhy,  but  my  pride  :>cliooled  my 
heart  in  reference  to  her.  I  resolved  that  she  should  see  me  go 
without  a  change  of  feature,  without  the  quivering  of  a  single 
muscle,.  I  resolved  to  see  her.  A  more  prudent  man  would 
nave  gone,  away  in  silence  and  in  secrecy.  lie  would  have  as 
resolutely  avoided  as  1  sought  the  interview.  But  i  was  not  a 


30  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

prudent  man.  My  feelings  were  too  impetuous,  my  pride  too 
ostentatious,  to  suffer  me  to  hide  it  from  exhibition.  To  depart 
without  seeking  and  seeing  Mary  would  be  a  tacit  acknowledg 
ment  of  weakness.  It  would  seem  i,hat  I  feared  the  interview ; 
that  I  questioned  my  own  strength  to  contend  against  an  influ 
ence  which  aft  around  me  suspected,  but  which  it  wa*  my  pride 
not  to  acknowledge  oven  to  myself. 

The  day  came  preceding  that  on  which  I  was  to  depart ;  and 
the  dinner  was  scarcely  ovor,  when,  ordering  my  horse,  I  set 
out  to  go  to  Squire  Kasterby's  plantation.  The  distance  was 
seven  miles,  a  matter  of  no  importance  in  a  country  where, 
from  childhood,  the  people  are  used  equally  to  fine  horses  and 
]ong  distances.  1  rode  slowly,  however,  for  I  was  meditating 
what  I  should  say,  and  how  I  should  demean  myself  during  tin 
interview  which  I  sought.  While  I  deliberated,  I  discovere/ 
that  I  had  overtasked  rny  strength.  I  felt  that  I  loved  too  ear 
nestly  not  to  be  somewhat,  if  not  severely,  tried.  Could  it  hav» 
been  that  at  that  late  moment  I  could  have  re-resolved,  and 
without  a  depreciation  of  my  self-esteem,  have  turned  back,  ] 
feel  that  I  should  have  done  so.  But  my  pride  would  not  suffei 
this,  and  I  resolved  to  leave  it  to  the  same  pride  to  sustain  and 
succor  me  throughout.  To  lose  emotions  which  1  found  it  im 
possible  to  subdue,  I  increased  the  speed  of  my  horse.  Stri 
king  the  rowel  into  his  flanks,  and  giving  him  free  rein,  I 
plunged  into  the  solitary  yet  crowded  woods,  over  a  road  which 
I  had  often  trodden,  and  which  was  now  filled  at  every  step  in 
rny  progress  with  staring,  obtrusive  memories,  which  chattered 
as  I  went  in  sweet  and  bitter  yet  familiar  tongues. 

How  often  had  I  trodden  the  same  region  with  her,  when  I 
had  no  fears,  and  none  but  pleasant  images  rose  up  before  my 
contemplation!  What  harmonies  were  my  unspoken,  my  un 
challenged  hopes  on  those  occasions  !  What  pictures  of  felicity 
rose  before  the  mind  on  every  side !  Not  that  I  then  thought 
of  love  —  not  that  I  proposed  to  myself  any  plan  or  purpose 
which  regarded  our  union.  No!  it  was  in  the  death  of  my 
hope  that  I  was  first  taught  to  know  that  it  had  ever  lived.  It 
was  only  in  the  moment  that  I  was  taught  that  I  loved  in  vain, 
that  my  boy-heart  discovered  that  it  had  ever  loved  at  all. 
Memories  were  all  that  I  had  rescued  from  the  wreck  of  hope, 


THE   HOSTILE   GRAPPLE.  31 

and  they  were  such  as  I  had  been  most  willing  to  have  lost  forever. 
It  was  but  a  sad  consolation  to  know  how  sweet  had  been  those 
things  which  I  had  once  known,  but  which  I  was  doomed  to  know 
no  longer. 

Bitter  were  the  thoughts  which  attended  me  as  I  rode  ;  yet  in 
their  very  bitterness  my  soul  gathered  its  strength.  The  sweets  of 
life  enfeeble  us.  We  struggle  among  them  as  a  greedy  fly  in 
the  honey  wyhich  clogs  its  wings,  and  fettersjt  forever.  The  grief  of 
the  heart  is  sometimes  its  best  medicine,  and  though  it  may  not 
give  us  back  the  lost,  it  arms  us  against  loss,  and  blunts  the 
sensibility  which  too  frequently  finds  its  fate  in  its  own 
acuteness.  From  my  bitter  thoughts  I  gathered  resolution.  I 
remembered  the  intimacy  which  had  formerly  prevailed  between 
us;  how  we  had  mutually  confided  to  each  other — how  I  had 
entirely  confided  to  her  ;  how  joint  were  our  sympathies,  how 
impatient  our  desires  to  be  together  ;  how  clearly  she  must  have 
seen  the  feelings  which  I  never  spoke ;  how  clearly  had  like 
feelings  in  her  been  exhibited  (so  I  now  thought)  to  me:  and, 
as  I  dwelt  on  these  memories,  I  inly  resolved  that  she  had  trifled 
w^ith  me.  She  had  won  me  by  her  arts,  till  my  secret  was 
in  her  possession,  and  then,  either  unmoved  herself,  or  willing  to 
sacrifice  her  affections  to  a  baser  worship,  she  had  given  herself 
to  another  whom  she  could  not  love,  but  whose  wealth  had  been  too 
great  a  temptation  to  her  woman-eyes  for  her  feeble  spirit  to  with 
stand. 

That  she  was  engaged  to  my  brother,  I  never  doubted  for  an 
instant.  It  was  as  little  the  subject  of  doubt  among  the  whole 
neighborhood.  Indeed,  it  was  the  conviction  of  the  neighborhood, 
and  the  old  women  thereof  which  produced  mine ;  and  then, 
the  evidence  seemed  utterly  conclusive.  John  Hurdis  spoke  of 
Mary  Eastcrby,  as  if  the  right  were  in  him  to  speak  for  her ;  and 
she  —  she  never  denied  the  imputation.  It  is  true  I  had  never 
questioned  heron  the  subject,  nor  indeed,  do  I  know  that  she  had 
ever  been  questioned  by  others  ;  but  where  was  the  necessity  to 
inquire  when  there  was  seemingly  so  little  occasion  for  doubt  ? 
The  neighborhood  believed,  and  it  was  no  hard  matter  for  one,  so 
jealous  and  suspicious  as  myself,  to  leap  with  even  more  readiness  to  a 
like  conclusion. 

And    yet,    riding     along    that    road,    all    my    memories    spoke 


32  RICHARD 

against  so  stra-ge  a  faith.  It  was  impossible  that  she  who  had 
so  freely  confided  to  me  the  fancies  and  the  feeling  of  her  child 
hood,  to  whom  I  had  so  readily  yielded  mine,  should  have  given 
herself  up  to  another,  with  whom  no  such  communion  had 
existed  —  to  whom  no  such  sympathy  had  been  ever  shown. 
We  had  sat  or  reclined  under  the  same  tree  —  we  had  sought 
the  same  walks  together  —  the  same  echoes  had  caught  the 
tones  of  our  kindred  voices,  and  chronicled,  by  their  responses 
from  the  hill-side  and  among  the  groves,  the  sentiments  of  our 
unfettered  hearts.  And  how  could  she  love  another?  Her 
hand  had  rested  in  mine  without  a  fear  —  my  arm  had  encircled 
her  waist  without  a  resistance  on  her  part,  or  a  meditating 
wrong  on  min-e.  And  had  we  not  kissed  each  other  at  meeting 
and  parting,  from  childhood,  and  through  its  pleasant  limits, 
until  —  ay,  almost  until  the  moment  when  the  right  of  another 
first  led  me  to  know  what  dear  privileges  had  been  my  own  1 
Wonder  not  at  the  bitterness  of  my  present  memories. 

It  was  at  the  moment  when  they  were  bitterest,  that  a  sudden 
turn  in  the  road  revealed  to  me  the  person  of  John  Ilurdis.  I 
recoiled  in  my  saddle,  and,  under  the  involuntary  impulse  of 
my  hands,  bore  back  my  horse  until  he  almost  sunk  upon  his 
haunches.  The  movement  of  both  could  not  have  been  more 
prompt  if  we  had  beheld  a  vexed  and  ready  adder  in  our  path 
And  .had  he  not  been  the  adder  in  my  path]  Had  he  not,  by 
his  sly  and  sneaking  practices,  infused  his  venom  into  the  mind 
of  her  upon  whom  my  hope,  which  is  the  life  of  life,  utterly 
depended  ?  Had  he  not  struck  at  my  heart  with  a  sting  not  less 
fearful,  though  more  concealed,  than  that  of  the  adder;  and  if 
he  had  failed  to  destroy,  was  it  not  rather  because  of  the  feeble 
ness  of  his  fang,  than  either  its  pirpose  or  its  venom.  If  he 
had  not,  then  did  I  do  him  grievous  wrong.  I  thought  he  had, 
and  my  soul  recoiled,  as  I  surveyed  him,  with  a  hatred,  which, 
had  he  been  other  than  my  mother's  son,  would  have  prompted 
me  to  slay  him. 

I  had  rounded  a  little  swamp  that  lay  upon  the  side  of  the 
road,  and  gave  it  the  outline  of  a  complete  elbow.  John 
Ilurdis  was  some  fifty  yards  in  advance  of  me.  I  had  not  seen 
him  at  dinner,  and  there  was  he  now  on  his  way  to  the  dwelling 
of  her  to  whom  I  was  about  to  pay  my  parting  visit.  The 


THE    HC.      ,1    GRAPPLE  33 

thought  that  I  should  meet  him  ^ith  her,  that  he  might  behold 
the.se  emotions  which  it  shamed  ice  to  think  I  might  not  be 
altogether  able  to  x  conceal,  at  once  brought  about  a  change  in 
my  resolve.  I  determined  to  give  him  no  such  chance  of 
triumph;  and  was  about  to  turn  the  head  of  my  horse  and 
return  to  my  father,  when  he  stopped  short,  wheeled  round  and 
beckoned  me  to  advance.  My  resolution  underwent  a  second 
change.  That  he  should  suppose  that  I  shrunk  from  an  en 
counter  with  him  of  any  description  was,  if  possible,  even  more 
mortifying  than  to  expose  the  whole  amount  of  my  heart's 
weakness  to  Mary  Esterby  before  his  eyes.  I  determined  to 
give  him  no  such  cause  for  exultation,  and  furiously  spurring 
forward,  another  instant  brought  me  beside  him. 

His  face  was  complaisance  itself,  and  his  manner  was  pre 
suming  enough;  and  there  was  something  in  the  slight  smile 
which  played  about  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  ana  in  the  twinkle 
of  his  eye,  which  I  did  not  relish.  It  may  ha1  o  been  that,  in 
the  morbid  state  of  my  feelings,  I  saw  through  a  false  medium; 
but  I  could  not  help  the  thought,  that  there  was  exultation  in 
his  smile,  and  my  jaundiced  spirit  put  on  new  f<;rms  of  jealousy 
with  this  conviction.  The  blood  boiled  within  my  veins,  as  I 
regarded  him,  and  thought  thus;  and  I  trembled  like  a  dry  leaf 
in  the  gusts  of  November,  while  I  suppressed,  or  strove  to  sup 
press,  the  rebellious  and  unruly  impulses  to  which  it  prompted 
me.  I  struggled  to  be  calm.  For  my  mother's  sake,  I  resolved 
to  say  and  do  nothing  which  should  savor  of  violence  at  the 
moment  when  I  was  about  to  part  with  her  forever. 

"  I  will  bear  it  all  —  all.  I  will  be  patient,"  I  said  to  my 
soul ;  "  It  is  not  long,  it  will  soon  be  over.  Another  day  and  I 
wrill  be  free  from  the  chance  of  contact  with  the  base,  dishonest 
reptile.  Let  him  gain,  let  him  triumph  as  he  may.  It  may  be 
—  the  day  may  come  !  But  no  —  I  will  not  think  of  such  a 
thing ;  revenge  is  not  for  me.  He  is  still,  though  base,  a 
brother.  Let  the  eternal  avenger  decree  his  punishment,  and 
choose  his  fitting  executioner." 

These  thoughts,  and  this  resolution  of  forbearance,  w^ere  all 
over  in  the  progress  of  an  instant;  and  we  rode  by  the  side  of 
one  another,  as  two  belli <rorert^  who  had  lately  been  warring 
to  the  very  knife,  bu1  the  security  of  a  temporary 


34  RICHARD    HURDIH. 

truce,  look  on  one  another,  ami  move  together  with  a  mixed  air 
half  of  peace,  half  e>f  war,  and  neither  altogether  assured  of  the 
virtue  which  is  assumed  to  exist  in  their  mutual  pledges. 

"Did  I  not  see  yon  turn  your  horse,  Richard,  as  if  to  gu 
hack  ?" 

"  You  did,"  was  my  reply ;  and  my  face  flushed  as  lie  thui 
compelled  me  to  the  acknowledgment. 

"  And  wherefore  ?" 

"  Wherefore  !"  I  paused  when  I  had  repeated  the  word.  It 
would  have  been  too  galling  to  have  spoken  out  the  truth.  1 
continued  thus  : — 

"  I  saw  you  proceeding  in  the  same  direction,  and  cared  not 
to  be  in  the  way.  Your  good  fortune  is  too  well-known,  to 
require  that  you  should  have  fresh  witnesses.  Besides,  my 
farewell  —  for  it  is  only  to  say  farewell,  that  I  go  now  —  is  no 
such  important  matter." 

"  You  are  right,  Richard.  My  good  fortune  needs  no  wit 
nesses,  though  it  likes  them.  But  why  should  you  think  that 
you  could  be  in  the  way?  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?" 

"Mean!  can  you  ask,"  I  replied,  with  something  of  a  sneer 
growing  on  my  lips  as  I  proceeded,  "  when  you  know  it  \9 
proverbial  that  young  lovers,  who  are  apt  to  be  more  sent? 
mental  than  sensible,  usually,  need  no  third  persons  at  theii 
interviews?  Indeed,  for  that  matter,  the  third  person  likes  it 
quite  as  little  as  themselves." 

"Less,  perhaps,  Richard,  if  he  himself  has  been  a  loser  at 
the  game,"  was  the  retort. 

"  Ay,"  I  rejoined  bitterly ;  "  but  if  the  game  be  played 
foully,  his  dislike  is  quite  as  much  the  result  of  his  scorn,  as  of 
his  disappointment,  lie  is  reconciled  to  his  loss,  when  he  finds 
its  worthlessncss,  and  he  envies  not  the  victor,  whose  *rcach- 
ery,  rather  than  his  skill,  has  been  the  source  of  his  greater 

1UCCCSS." 

The  lips  of  my  brother  grew  positively  livid,  as  he  opened 
them,  as  if  in  the  act  to  speak.  He  was  prudent  in  forbearing, 
Tor  he  kept  silent. 

"Look  you,  John  Ilurdis,"  I  continued,  turning  full  upot 
him  as  I  spoke,  arid  putting  my  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  H« 
ibrank  from  under  it.  His  guilty  conscience  had  put  a  rnorbv1 


THE   HOSTILE   GRAPPLE.  35 

nerve  under  every  inch  of  flesh  in  his  system.      I  laughed  aloud 
as  I  beheld  him. 

"Why  do  you  shrink?"  I  demanded,  now  in  turn  becoming 
the  questioner. 

"Shrink  —  I  shrink  —  did  I  shrink?"  he  answered  me  con 
fusedly,  scarcely  conscious  what  he  said. 

"Ay  —  did  you,"  I  responded,  with  a  glance  intended  to  go 
through  him.  "You  shrank  as  if  my  finger  were  fire  —  as  if 
you  feared  that  I  meant  to  harm  you." 

His  pride  came  to  his  relief.  He  plucked  up  strength  to  say, 
"You  mistake,  Richard.  I  did  not  shrink,  and  if  I  did,  it  was 
not  through  fear  of  you  or  any  other  man." 

My  hand  again  rested   on  his  shoulder,  as  I  replied  —  my   eye  | 
searching  through  him  all  the  while  with    a    keenness,    beneath  j 
which,   it  was  a  pleasure  to  me  to  behold  him  again  shrink  and 
falter. 

"You  may  deceive  yourself,  John  Hurdis,  but  you  can  not 
deceive  me.  You  did  shrink  from  my  touch,  even  as  you  shrink 
now  beneath  mine  eye.  More  than  this,  John  Hurdis,  you  do 
fear  me  whatever  may  be  your  ordinary  courage  in  the  presence 
of  other  men.  I  see  —  I  feel  that  you.  fear  me  ;  and  I  am  not 
less  assured  on  the  subject  of  your  fears.  You  would  not  fear 
were  you  not  guilty  —  nor  tremble  now  while  I  speak  were  you 
less  deserving  of  my  punishment.  But  you  need  not  tremble. 
You  are  secure,  John  Hurdis.  That  which  you  have  in  your 
bosom  of  my  blood  is  your  protection  for  the  greater  quantity 
which  you  have  that  is  not  mine,  and  with  which  my  soul  scorns 
all  communion." 

His  face  grew  black  as  he  gazed  upon  me.  The  foam  flecked 
his  blanched  lips  even  as  it  gathers  upon  the  bit  of  the  driven 
and  infuriated  horse.  His  frame  quivered — his  tongue  mut 
tered  inaudible  sounds,  and  he  gazed  on  me,  laboring,  but  in 
vain,  to  speak.  I  laughed  as  I  beheld  his  feeble  fury  —  I 
laughed  in  the  abundance  of  my  scorn,  and  he  then  spoke. 

"Boy!"  he  cried  —  "  boy  —  but  for  your  mother,  I  should  lay 
this  whip  over  your  shoulders." 

He  shook  it  before  me  as  he  spoke,  and  I  grappled  with  him 
on  the  instant.  With  a  sudden  grasp,  and  an  effort,  to  oppose 
which,  he  had  neither  strength  of  soul  nor  of  body,  I  dragged 


36  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

him  from  his  horse.  Straining  feebly  and  ineffectually  to  resist 
his  coward  tendency,  he,  at  length,  after  a  few  struggles,  fell 
heavily  upon  the  ground  and  almost  under  the  feet  of  my  ani 
mal.  His  own  horse  passed  away,  and  at  the  s;imc  moment,  I 
leaped  down  from  mine.  My  blood  was  in  a  dreadful  tumult  — 
my  fingers  twitched  nervously  to  grapple  with  him  again,  but 
ere  I  could  do  so,  a  sound— a  scream  —  the  sudden  and  re 
peated  shrieks  of  a  woman's  voice,  arrested  me  in  my  angry 
purpose,  and  I  stood  rooted  to  the  spot.  Too  well  I  knew  that 
voice,  and  the  tremor  of  rage  which  an  instant  before  had 
shaken  me  to  the  center  was  now  succeeded  by  a  tremor  far 
more  powerful.  Unlike  the  former  it  was  enfeebling,  palsying 
—  it  took  from  me  the  wolfish  strength  with  which  the  former 
seemed  to  have  endued  me.  The  voice  of  a  girl  had  given  me 
the  weakness  of  a  girl,  and  like  a  culprit  I  stood,  as  if  fixed 
and  frozen,  until  my  brother  had  arisen  from  the  ground  where 
I  had  thrown  him,  and  Mary  Easterby  stood  between  us. 


PARTI  NT,    SCENES. 


Oil  APTER    V 

I'AKT  NO    S 


"I  thought  to  chide  thee,  but  it  will  not  he; 
True  love  can  but  awhile  look  bitUrly." 

1  i  KY  WOOD  —  /xwt?  i  .\fu'rt*t. 
"  You  have  led  rue 

Into  a  subtle  labyrinth,  where  I  nev«r 
Shall  have  fruition  of  my  former  freedom." 

The  Isidy's  J*rivtlfy«. 

S  IE  stood  between  us  like  some  judge  suddenly  descended 
from  heaven,  and  armed  with  power  to  punish,  and  I  stood  he- 
fore  her  like  a  criminal  conscious  of  my  demerits  and  waiting 
for  the  doom.  An  instant  before  she  came,  and  I  had  a  thou 
sand  arguments,  each,  to  my  mind,  sufficient  to  justify  me  foi 
any  violence  which  I  might  execute  upon  .John  Ilurdis.  Now 
L  had  not  one.  The  enormity  of  the  act  of  which  I  had  been 
guilty,  seemed  to  expand  and  swell  with  every  accumulated 
thought  upon  it  ;  and  my  tongue,  that  had  been  eloquent  with 
indignation  but  a  little  while  before,  was  now  frozen  with  si 
lence,  and  without  even  the  power  of  evasion  or  appeal.  I  did 
not  venture  to  look  her  in  the  face  —  1  did  not  venture  even  to 
look  upon  my  brother.  What  were  his  feeling0  1  know  not  ; 
but  if  they  partook,  at  that  moment,  of  any  of  the  intense  ba 
rn  ility  which  made  up  the  greater  part  of  mine,  then  was  he 
almost  sufficiently  punished  for  the  injuries  which  he  had  dene 
me.  I  certainly  felt  that  he  was  almost  if  not  quite  avenged 
in  my  present  humility  for  the  unbrotherly  anger  of  wh,ch  he 
had  been  the  victim. 

"  Oh,  Richard  Hurdis,"   she  exclaimed,  "  this  violence,  and 
opon  your  brother  too." 

Why  had  she  not  addressed  her  speech  to  him  I     Was  I 


RICHARD   HURDIS. 

guilty  ?  Had  he  not  provoked  —  had  he  not  even  threatened 
me  ?  The  thought  that  she  was  now  again  showing  the  par 
tiality  in  his  favor  which  had  beer,  the  source  of  my  unhappi- 
jess,  changed  the  tenor  of  my  fcv".'.:>rs.  My  sense  of  humilia 
tion  gave  way  to  offended  pride.  ..  t  I  answered  with  sullen 
defiance. 

"And  am  I  only  to  blame,  Mary  Easterby?  ("an  you  see 
faul4  in  no  other  than  me?  Methinks  tliis  is  less  than  justice, 
and  I  may  safely  deny  the  authority  which  so  openly  afl'rontsi 
justice  with  an  avowal  of  its  partialities." 

"I  have  no  partialities,  Richard  —  it  is  you  that  are  unjust. 
The  violence  that  I  witnessed  was  only  yours.  1  saw  not  any 
other." 

"There  was  indignity  and  insolence  —  provocation  enough, 
Mary  Easterby,"  I  replied  hastily,  "  if  not  violence,  to  justify 
me  in  what  1  did.  But  I  knew  not  that  you  beheld  us.  1 
would  not  else  have  punished  John  Hurdis.  1  would  have 
borne  with  his  insolence  —  I  would  have  spared  him  his  shame 
—  if  not  on  his  account, on  yours.  1  regret  that  you  have  seen 
us,  though  I  have  no  regret  for  what  I  have  done." 

I  confronted  my  brother  as  1  spoke  these  words,  as  if  to  sat 
isfy  him  that  I  was  ready  to  give  him  the  ">nly  form  of  atone 
ment  which  1  felt  his  due.  lie  seemed  to  understand  me,  and 
to  do  him  all  justice,  his  port  was  as  manly  as  1  could  desir 
that  of  my  father's  son  to  be  at  all  times.  His  eye  flashed 
back  a  family  expression  of  defiance,  and  his  lips  were  closed 
with  a  resoluteness  that  showed  him  to  be  fully  roused.  But 
for  the  presence  of  Mary  Easterby,  we  had  come  to  the  death 
struggle  in  that  very  hour.  But  we  felt  ourselves  too  greatly 
wrong  not  to  acknowledge  her  superiority.  Vexed  and  sullen 
as  I  was,  I  was  doubly  vexed  with  the  consciousness  of  error ; 
and  when  she  spoke  again  in  answer  to  my  last  words  my  cha 
grin  found  due  increase  in  what  she  said. 

"  I  know  nothing  of  the  provocation,  Richard,  and  need  noth 
ing  to  believe  that  there  was  provocation,  or  tiiat  you  thought 
so,  which  moved  you  to  what  you  did.  I  could  not  suppose,  for 
an  instant,  that  you  would  proceed  to  such  violence  withoni 
provocation;  but  that  any  prov-.>j.it.:3ii  short  of  violence  itself, 
will  justify  violence  —  and  violence  too  upon  a  brother  —  ]  tan 


PARTING  SCENES.  »* 

not  admit,  nor,  in  your  secret  heart,  Richard,  do  you  admit  it 
yourself.  What  would  your  mother  say,  Richard,  were  she  to 
hear  this  story  1" 

"  She  might  be  loss  angry,  and  less  pained,  Mary  Easterby, 

than  you  imagine,  k  sue  knew  all  the  story.     If  she  knew 

but  no  !  why  should  I  recount  his  villanies,  Mary  Easterby, 
and  least  of  all  why  recount  them  to  you  ?  I  will  not." 

'Nor  do  I  wish  —  nor  would  I  hear  them,  Richard,"  she 
replied  promptly,  though  gently.  I  saw  the  eyes  of  John 
Hurdis  brighten,  and  my  soul  felt  full  of  bitterness. 

"  What !  you  would  not  believe  me,  then,  Mary  Easterby. 
Can  it  be  that  your  prejudices  go  so  far  as  that?" 

The  tears  gathered  in  her  eyeis  as  they  were  fixed  upon  mine 
and  beheld  the  sarcastic  and  scornfil  expression  in  them,  but 
she  replied  without  hesitation. 

"You  are  unjust,  and  unkind  to  me,  Richard;"  and  her 
voice  trembled  :  she  proceeded  :  — 

'  I  would  be  unwilling  to  believe,  and  am  quite  is  unwilling 
to  hear  anything  which  could  be  prejudicial  to  the  good  name 
of  any  of  your  family,  your  brother  or  yourself.  I  have  loved 
them  all  too  long  and  too  truly,  Richard,  to  find  pleasure  in 
anything  which  spoke  against  their  worth.  I  should  bo  not 
less  unwilling,  Richard,  to  think  that  you  could  say  anything 
which  did  not  merit  and  command  belief.  I  might  think  you 
guilty  of  error,  never  of  falsehood  " 

"  Thank  you,  Mary  ;  for  so  mui  h,  at  least,  let  me  thank  you. 
You  do  me  justice  only.  When  I  speak  falsely,  of  man  or  wo 
man,  brother  or  stranger,  friend  or  foe,  let  my  tongue  cleave  to 
my  mouth  in  blisters." 

John  Hurdis  mounted  his  horse  at  that  moment,  and  an  air 
of  dissatisfaction  seemed  to  hang  upon  his  features.  He  mut 
tered  something  to  himself,  the  words  of  which  were  unintelli 
gible  to  us ;  then  speaking  hurriedly  to  Mary,  he  declared  his 
intention  of  riding  on  to  her  father's  farm,  then  but  a  short 
mile  off.  She  begged  him  to  do  s<\  courteously,  but,  as  I  thought 
coldly ;  and  giving  a  bitter  glance  of  enmity  towards  me,  he 
put  spurs  to  his  horse  and  was  soon  out  of  sight. 

His  absence  had  a  visible  effect  upon  her,  and  I  felt  that 
much  of  the  vexation  was  passing  from  my  own  heart.  There 


40  RICHARD   HURDI8. 

was  something  in  the  previous  conversation  between  us  which 
had  softened  me,  and  when  the  tramp  of  his  horse's  heels  was 
no  longer  in  hearing,  it  seemed  as  if  a  monstrous  barrier  had 
been  broken  down  from  between  us.  All  my  old  thoughts  and 
fancies  returned  to  me ;  sweet  memories,  which  I  had  just  be 
fore  angrily  dismissed,  now  came  back  confidently  to  my  mind, 
and  taking  her  hand  in  one  of  mine,  while  leading  my  horse 
with  the  .other,  we  took  our  course  through  a  narrow  path 
which  wound  through  a  pleasant  thicket,  we  had  troddtn  to 
gether  a  thousand  times  before. 

"  Mary,"  I  began,  as  we  proceeded,  "  this  is  our  old  walk. 
Do  you  remember  ?  That  pine  has  lain  across  the  path  from 
the  first  time  we  knew  it." 

"  Yes,  it  looks  the  same  as  ever,  Richard,  with  one  excep 
tion  which  I  have  remarked  more  than  once  and  particularly 
this  morning.  The  end  of  it,  upon  which  we  used  to  sit,  is 
scarcely  to  be  got  at  now,  the  bushes  have  grown  up  so  thickly 
around  it." 

"  It  is  so  long,  Mary,  since  we  have  used  it.  It  was  ouv 
visits  that  kept  the  brush  down.  The  weeds  grow  now  withou* 
interruption  from  us  —  from  me  at  least ;  and  the  time  is  fai 
distant  when  I  shall  visit  it  again.  Do  you  know,  Mary,  I  am 
come  to  bid  you  good-by  ?  I  leave  Marengo  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow  !  so  soon  ?" 

"  Soon  !  Do  you  think  it  soon,  Mary  ?  I  have  been  making 
preparations  for  months.  Certainly,  I  have  declared  my  inten. 
tion  for  months." 

"  Indeed  !  but  not  to  me.  I  did  hear  something  of  such  a 
purpose  being  in  your  mind ;  but  I  hoped,  I  mean  I  believed 
that  it  was  not  true." 

"  Did  you  hope  that  it  was  not  true  ?"  I  demanded  with  some 
earnestness.  She  answered  with  the  ready  frankness  of  child 
hood. 

"  Surely  I  did ;   and  when  John  Ilurdis  told  me " 

"John  Hurdis  is  no  authority  for  me,"  I  said  gloomily, 
breaking  off  her  speech  in  the  middle.  The  interruption  brought 
us  back  to  our  starting-place,  from  the  contemplation  of  which, 
since  my  brother's  departure»  we  had  both  tacitly  seemed  to 
shrink. 


PARTING   SCENES.  41 

"  Oh,  Richard,  this  an  evil  temper  !"  she  exclaimed.  "  Why 
do  you  encourage  it?  Why  this  angry  spirit  toward  your 
brother  !  It  is  an  evil  mood,  and  can  do  no  good.  Besides,  I 
think  you  do  him  injustice.  He  is  gentle  and  good  natured ; 
he  wants  your  promptness,  it  may  be,  and  he  lacks  something 
of  your  enterprise  and  industry.  Perhaps,  too,  he  has  not  the 
same  zealous  warmth  of  feeling,  but  truly  I  believe  that  his 
heart  is  in  the  right  place." 

"  It  is  your  policy  to  believe  so,  Mary ;  else  where  is  yours  ?" 

"Mine!"  she  exclaimed;  and  her  eye  was  fixed  upon  me 
with  an  expression  of  mixed  curiosity  and  wonder. 

"Ay,  yours,"  I  continued,  giving  a  construction  to  the  equiv 
ocal  form  of  my  previous  speech,  differing  from  that  which  I 
originally  intended ;  "  ay,  yours,  for  if  it  be  net,  your  charity 
is  wasted.  But  no  more  of  this,  Mary,  if  you  please.  The  sub 
ject,  for  sundry  reasons,  is  an  unpleasant  one  to  me.  John 
Hurdis  is  fortunate  in  your  eulogy,  and  for  your  sake,  not  less 
than  his,  I  will  not  seek,  by  any  word  of  mine,  to  disturb  your 
impressions.  My  words  might  prejudice  your  opinion  of  his 
worth,  without  impairing  its  intrinsic  value ;  and  it  may  be,  as 
you  think,  that  I  am  all  wrong  about  it.  He  is  a  fortunate 
man,  that  John  Hurdis  —  doubly  fortunate,  Mary.  He  has  the 
wealth  which  men  toil  for,  and  fight  for,  and  lie  for,  and  sell 
themselves  to  the  foul  fiend  for  in  a  thousand  ways :  he  has  the 
favor  of  women ;  a  greater  temptation,  for  which  they  do  a 
thousand  times  worse.  He  has  those  possessions,  Mary,  some 
of  which  I  am  never  to  have,  but  for  the  rest  of  which  I  am 
even  now  about  to  leave  the  home  and  perhaps  all  the  happi 
ness  of  my  childhood." 

"  You  surely  do  not  envy  your  brother,  Richard,  any  of  his 
possessions  1" 

"  Let  me  know  what  they  are,  Mary ;  let  them  be  enumer 
ated,  and  then  will  I  answer  you.  Envy  John  Hurdis  I  do 
not;  that  is  to  say,  I  do  not  envy  him  his  wealth,  or  his  wis 
dom,  his  lands,  his  negroes,  or  any  of  his  worldly  chattels. 
Are  you  satisfied  now,  Mary,  that  there  is  nothing  base  in  my 
envy,  though  it  may  be  that  he  has  something  yet  which  pro 
vokes  it?" 

"And  what  is  that,  Richard?" 


42  RICHARD   HURDI8. 

Why  did  I  not  answer  her  in  plain  language  ?  How  often 
have  I  repented  that  I  did  not !  How  much  sorrow  might  have 
been  spared  me  else  !  But  I  was  proud  of  heart  as  Lucifer — 
proud  in  my  own  despite,  stubborn  to  my  own  sorrow. 

"Mary,  ask  me  not,"  I  answered.  "What  matter  is  it  to 
know,  when,  even  were  he  to  lose  that  which  I  envy  him,  it 
might  be  that  I  would  not  be  esteemed  worthy  to  possess  it  V9 

"  Richard,  there  is  something  strange  to  me  in  your  tones, 
and  mysterious  in  your  language.  Why  do  you  not  speak  to 
me  as  formerly?  Why  are  you  changed — why  should  you  b« 
changed  to  me  ?  You  scarcely  speak  now  without  saying  some 
thing  which  I  do  not  thoroughly  comprehend.  There  is  a  hid 
den  meaning  in  everything  you  say ;  and  it  seems  to  me  that 
you  are  suspicious  and  distrustful  of  the  honesty  of  every 
body." 

"  And  should  I  not  be,  Mary  ?  He  is  not  a  wise  man  who 
learns  no  lessons  of  caution  from  the  deception  of  others ;  who, 
wronged  once,  suffers  himself  to  be  wronged  a  second  time  from 
the  same  source.  I  may  be  distrustful,  but  I  am  prudently  so, 
Mary." 

"  You  prudent,  Richarc  !  I  fear  that  even  now  you  deceive 
yourself,  as  it  seems  to  me  you  must  have  deceived  yourself 
before.  You  have  not  said,  Richard,  by  whom  you  have  been 
wronged — by  whose  dishonesty  you  have  acquired  all  these 
.essons  of  prudence  and  circumspection." 

How  could  I  answer  this  ?  Whom  could  I  accuse  ?  I  could 
only  answer  by  replying  to  another  portion  of  her  remarks. 

"  You  think  me  changed,  Mary,  and  I  will  not  deny  it.  I 
am  certainly  not  so  happy  as  I  have  been ;  but  my  change  has 
O'jly  corresponded  with  the  changed  aspects  of  the  world  around 
me.  I  know  that  I  have  undergone  no  greater  changes  than 
others  that  I  know — than  you,  for  example.  You  are  changed, 
Mary,  greatly  changed  in  my  sight." 

The  deepest  crimson  and  the  utmost  pallor  succeeded  to  each 
other  in  rapid  alternations  upon  her  cheek.  Her  bosom  heaved 
— her  hand  trembled  within  my  own.  I  thought  at  first  that 
she  would  have  fainted,  and,  dropping  the  bridle  of  my  hurse, 
I  supported  her  shrinking  form  with  my  arm.  But  she  recov 
ered  herself  almost  instantly  •,  and,  advancing  from  the  clasp  of 


PARTING   SCENES  4& 

my  arm,  which  had  encircled  her  waist,  with  a  sudden  compo 
sure  which  astonished  me,  she  replied  :  — 

"I  did  not  think  it,  Richard ;  I  am  not  conscious  of  any 
change  in  me,  but  it  may  be  even  as  you  say.  I  could  have 
wished  you  had  not  seen  it,  if  it  be  so ;  for.  of  a  truth,  I  have 
not  striven  for  change,  and  it  gives  me  pain  to  think  that  I  do 
seem  so  —  to  my  friends  at  least." 

"  It  is  so,  Mary.  I  once  thought  —  but  no  !  wherefore  should 
F  speak  of  such  things  now  ? — " 

She  interrupted  me  by  a  sudden  and  hurried  effort  —  seem- 
ingly  an  impulsive  one  :  — 

"Oh,  speak  it,  Richard  —  speak  aloud  —  speak  freely  as  you 
nsed  to  speak  when  we  were  happy  children  together.  Be  no 
*onger  estranged  —  think  me  not  so  !  Speak  your  thought,  and, 
as  I  hope  for  kindness  from  all  I  love,  I  will  as  freely  utter 
mine." 

"  No  !"  I  exclaimed  coldly,  and  half-releasing  her  fingers  from 
my  grasp  ;  "  no,  Mary,  it  were  but  a  folly  now  to  say  what  were 
my  thoughts  once  —  my  feelings  —  my  fancies.  I  might  have 
done  so  in  a  former  day ;  but  now  I  can  not.  I  acknowledge 
the  change,  and  so  must  you.  It  is  a  wise  one.  Ere  long, 
Mary,  long  before  I  return  to  Marengo,  you  will  undergo  an 
other  change,  perhaps,  which  I  shall  not  witness,  and  shall  not 
desire  to  witness." 

"  What  is  it  that  you  mean,  Richard  ?" 

"Nothing — no  matter  what.  It  will  be  a  happy  change  to 
you,  Mary,  and  that  should  be  enough  to  make  me  satisfied  with 
it.  God  knows  I  wish  you  happiness  —  all  happiness  —  as  com 
plete  as  it  is  in  man's  power  to  make  it  to  you.  I  must  leave 
you  now.  The  sun  is  gone,  and  I  have  to  ride  over  to  Carring- 
ton's  to-night.  Good-by,  Mary,  good-by." 

"Are  you  going,  Richard?"  she  said,  without  looking  up 

"  Yes,  I  have  loitered  too  long  already." 

"You  will  write  to  us— to  father?" 

"  No ;  of  what  use  to  write  ?  Wherefore  tax  your  sympathiei 
by  telling  the  story  of  my  sufferings  ?" 

"  But  your  successes,  Richard  ?" 

"  You  will  believe  them  without  the  writing." 

-So  cold,  Richard?" 


44  RICHARD   HUEDIS 

"So  prudent,  Mary  —  prudent." 

"And  you  will  not  go  to  the  house  ?" 

"What!  to  meet  him  there?  No,  no!  Good-by  — God  bless 
you,  Mary,  whatever  be  your  changes  of  fortune  or  condition ! " 
I  carried  her  hand  to  my  lips,  flung  it  from  me,  and,  gathering 
up  the  bridle  of  my  steed,  was  soon  upon  my  way.  Was  it  in 
truth  a  sob  which  I  heard  behind  me?  I  stole  a  glance  back 
ward —  and  she  sat  upon  the  log,  with  her  face  buried  in  her 
hands. 


EVIL   MOODS 


CHAPTER   VI 

EVH,   MOODS 

'  Why  talk  we  not  together  hand-in-hand, 
And  tell  our  griefs  in  more  familiar  terms  I 
But  thou  art  gone,  and  leav'st  me  here  alone, 
To  dull  the  air  with  my  discoursive  moan  1" 

MARLOWE  AND  NASA. 

••  SHE  sat  upon  the  log,  with  her  face  buried  in  her  hands/' 
More  than  once,  as  I  rode  away  that  evening,  did  I  repeat  these 
words  to  myself.  Wherefore  should  she  exhibit  such  emotion  ? 
wherefore  should  she  sob  at  my  departure  ?  Did  she  not  love 
—  was  she  not  betrothed  to  another?  Of  this  I  had  no  doubt, 
and  what  could  I  think  ?  Was  not  such  emotion  natural  enough  ? 
Had  we  not  been  born  as  it  were  together  ?  Had  we  not  been 
together  from  the  earliest  dawn  of  infancy  —  at  that  period 
when  children,  like  clustering  buds  upon  a  rose-bush  in  early 
spring,  rejoice  to  intertwine,  as  if  the  rude  hands  of  the  world 
were  never  to  pluck  them  asunder,  and  place  them  in  different 
and  foreign  bosoms  1  Was  it  not  natural  enough  that  she  should 
show  some  sign  of  sorrow  at  thus  parting  with  a  youthful  play 
mate  ? 

I  labored  to  persuade  myself  that  this  was  all ;  yet,  the  more 
I  reflected  upon  the  matter,  the  more  mysterious  and  contra 
dictory  did  it  seem.  If  it  were  that  her  emotions  were  natural 
to  her  as  a  long-familiar  playmate,  why  had  she  been  so  es 
tranged  from  me  for  so  many  previous  and  painful  months? 
why  did  she  look  always  so  grave,  in  later  days,  whenever  we 
met  1  why  so  reserved  —  so  different  from  the  confiding  girl  who 
had  played  with  me  from  infancy  1  why  so  slow  to  meet  me  as 
formerly?  why  so  unwilling  to  wander  with  me  as  before, 
among  the  secluded  paths  which  our  own  feet  had  beaten  into 


4  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

confirmed  tracks  ?  why,  above  all,  so  much  more  intimate  and 
free  with  John  Hurdis,  who  had  never  been  her  companion  in 
childhood,  and  who,  it  was  the  most  surprising  thing  in  the  world 
to  me,  should  be  her  companion  now? — he  coarse,  listless,  un- 
sympathizing;  in  his  taste  low,  in  his  deportment  unattractive, 
in  his  conversation  tedious  and  prosing,  in  his  propensities,  if 
not  positively  vicious,  at  least  far  from  virtuous  or  good ! 

What  had  they  in  common  together  ?  how  could  they  mingle, 
how  unite?  by  what  arts  had  he  won  her  to  his  wishes?  by 
what  baser  arts  had  he  estranged  her  from  mine?  Of  some  of 
these,  indeed,  I  had  heard.  More  than  once  already  had  I  ex 
posed  him.  His  hints  and  equivoques  had,  as  I  thought,  recoiled 
only  upon  his  own  head;  and  yet  the  ties  grew  and  increased 
between  them,  even  as  the  walls  and  barriers  continued  to  rise 
and  thicken  between  herself  and  me.  I  degraded  him,  but  dis 
dained  any  longer  to  strive  for  her.  The  busy  neighborhood 
soon  informed  me  how  idle  would  be  such  struggles.  They  de 
clared  her  betrothed  to  John  Hurdis,  and  did  not  stop  at  this. 
They  went  further,  and  proclaimed  her  to  have  been  bought 
by  his  money  to  see  in  him  those  qualities  and  that  superior 
worth  which,  but  for  this,  she  I  "*  been  slow  to  discover. 
Should  I  struggle  against  his  good  fortune  ?  should  I  desire  to 
win  one  whose  market  value  was  so  readily  understood  by  all  ? 
I  turned  from  the  contest  in  disdain ;  and,  wondering  at  her 
baseness  as  a  matter  no  less  surprising  than  humiliating,  I  strove 
to  fling  her  from  my  thoughts  as  I  would  the  tainted  and  offen 
sive  weed,  which  had  been,  at  one  time,  a  pure  and  chosen 
flower. 

I  had  not  been  successful.  I  could  not  fling  her  from  my 
thoughts.  Night  and  day  she  was  before  me ;  at  all  hours,  what 
ever  were  my  pursuits,  my  desires,  my  associates.  Her  image 
made  the  picture  in  the  scene ;  her  intelligence,  her  mind,  the 
grace  of  her  sentiments,  the  compass  and  the  truth  of  her 
thoughts,  were  forced  upon  me  for  contemplation,  by  the  obtru 
sive  memory,  in  disparagement  of  those  to  which  I  listened. 
How  perfect  had  she  ever  before  seemed  to  me  in  her  thoughts 
and  sentiments  !  How  strange  that  one  so  correct  in  her  stand 
ards  of  opinion,  should  not  have  strength  enough  to  be  the  thing 
which  she  approved !  This  is  the  most  mortifying  conviction 


EVIL  MOODS.  47 

of  humanity.  We  build  the  temple,  but  the  god  does  not  inhabit  it, 
though  we  solicit  him  with  incense,  and  bring  our  best  offerings  to 
his  altars. 

I  reached  the  dwelling  of  William  Carrington  ere  I  felt  that  my 
journey  was  begun.  The  velocity  of  my  thoughts  had  made  me 
unconscious  of  that  of  my  motion  —  nay,  had  prompted  me  to 
increase  it  beyond  my  ordinary  habit.  When  I  alighted,  my  horse 
was  covered  with  foam. 

"You  have  ridden  hard,"  said  Carrington. 

"No;  I  think  not.     I  but  came  from  'Squire  Easterby's." 

He  said  no  more  then,  for  the  family  was  around;  but  that  night, 
when  we  retired,  our  conversation  was  long,  upon  various  subjects; 
and,  in  the  course  of  it,  I  told  him  all  the  particulars  of  my 
rencontre  with  John  Hurdis,  and  of  my  parting  interview  with 
Mary  Easterby.  He  listened  with  much  attention,  and  then  spoke 
abruptly : — 

"You  do  that  girl  wrong,  Richard.  You  are  quite  too  harsh 
to  her  at  times.  I  have  heard  and  seen  you.  Your  jealousy 
prompts  you  to  language  which  is  ungenerous,  to  say  the  least, 
and  which  you  have  no  right  to  use.  You  never  told  her  that  ycm 
loved  her  —  never  asked  her  to  love  you  !  What  reason  can  you 
have  to  complain,  either  that  she  is  beloved  by,  or  that  she  loves 
another  ?  " 

"None!     I  do  not  complain." 

"You  do!  Your  actions,  your  looks,  your  language,  are  all 
full  of  complaint.  The  show  of  dissatisfaction — of  discontent 
—  is  complaint,  and  that,  too,  of  the  least  manly  description. 
It  savors  too  much  of  the  sullenness  of  the  whipped  school-boy, 
or  one  denied  his  holyday,  to  be  manly.  Let  us  have  no  more 
of  it,  Richard." 

"  You  speak  plainly  enough." 

"I  do;  and  you  should  thank  me  for  it.  I  were  no  friend 
if  I  did  not.  Do  not  be  angry,  Richard,  that  I  do  so.  I  have 
your  good  at  heart,  and,  I  think,  you  have  been  fighting  seriously 
against  it.  You  think  too  bitterly  of  your  brother  to  do  him 
justice." 

"Speak  nothing  of  him,  William." 

"I  will  not  say  much,  for  you  know  I  like  him  quite  as  little 
as  yourself.  Still,  I  do  not  hate  him  as  you  do;  and  caa  not 


48  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

agree  with  you,  therefore,  as  to  the  propriety  of  your  course  toward 
him.  You  can  not  fight  him  as  you  would  a  stranger,  and  have  done 
with  it." 

' '  I  could  ! — you  mistake.  I  feel  that  I  could  fight  him  with  even 
less  reluctance  than  I  would  a  stranger." 

"  I  grant  you  that  your  hostility  is  bitter  enough  for  it,  but  you 
have  too  much  sense  of  propriety  left  to  indulge  it.  You  can  not, 
and  should  not,  were  I  by,  even  if  you  were  yourself  willing. 
Have  done  with  him,  then  ;  and,  as  you  have  already  separated, 
let  your  thoughts  maintain  as  rigid  a  distance  from  him  as  your 
person." 

"And  leave  him  the  field  to  himself?" 

"Have  you  not  already  done  so?  Have  you  not  pronounced 
the  field  unworthy  fighting  for  ?  Pshaw,  man !  this  is  but 
wasting  valor." 

I  listened  gloomily,  and  in  utter  silence  as  he  went  on  thus: — 

"But,"  he  continued,  "I  am  not  so  sure,  either  that  the  field 
is  in  his  possession,  or  that  it  is  unworthy.  I  tell  you,  you  do 
Mary  Easterby  injustice !  I  do  not  think  that  she  loves  your 
brother.  I  doubt  that  she  even  likes  him.  I  see  no  proof  of 
it." 

"Ay,  but  there  is  proof  enough.  You  see  not  because  your 
eyes  are  elsewhere.  But  say  no  more,  William ;  let  us  drop 
this  hateful  subject." 

"I  am  afraid  your  jealous  spirit  makes  it  hateful,  Richard. 
That  girl,  Mary,  is  a  treasure  too  valuable  to  be  given  up  so 
lightly,  By  my  soul,  were  I  not  otherwise  bound,  I  should 
struggle  for  her  myself !" 

"You!" 

"Yea,  even  I,  William  Carrington !  Nay,  look  not  so  grim 
and  gluttonous !  You  forget  that  you  renounce  the  spoil,  and 
that  I  am  sworn  elsewhere !  I  would  that  all  others  were  as 
little  in  your  path  as  I  am  ! " 

"And  I  care  not  how  many  crowd  my  path  when  I  am  out 
of  it ! "  was  my  sullen  answer. 

"Ah,  Richard !  you  were  born  to  muddy  the  spring  you 
drink  from.  You  will  pay  for  this  perversity  in  your  natui<3. 
Be  more  hopeful — more  confiding,  man !  Think  better  of  your 
own  nature,  and  of  the  nature  of  those  around  you.  It  is  the 


EVIL   MOODS.  49 

best  policy.  To  look  for  rascals  is  to  find  rascals ;  and  to  believe 
in  wrong,  is  not  only  to  suffer,  but  to  do  wrong.  For  my  part,  I 
would  rather  be  deceived  than  doubt ;  rather  lose,  than  perpet 
ually  fear  loss  ;  rather  be  robbed,  than  suspect  every  one  I  meet  of 
roguery  ! " 

"  I  answer  you  through  my  experience,  William,  when  I  tell  you 
that  you  will  pay  dearly  for  your  philanthropy.  Your  faith  will  be 
rewarded  by  faithlessness." 

"Stay!"  he  cried — "no  more!  You  would  not  impute  insin 
cerity  to  Emmeline  Walker  ?  " 

"No  !  surely  not." 

' '  Then  let  the  world  be  false,  and  play  double  with  me  as  it 
pleases  !  She  can  not !  I  know  her,  Dick  —  I  know  her  !  She  will 
perish  for  me  as  freely,  I  am  sure,  as  I  would  for  her  !  And  shall  I 
doubt,  when  she  is  true  ?  Would  to  heaven,  Richard,  you  would 
believe  but  half  so  confidently  in  Mary  ! " 

"And  what  use  in  that  ? " 

"  Why,  then,  my  life  on  it,  she  will  believe  in  you  !  I  somehow 
suspect  that  you  are  all  wrong  in  that  girl.  I  doubt  that  these  old 
women,  who  have  no  business  but  their  neighbors'  to  attend  to,  and 
for  whose  benefit  a  charitable  society  should  be  formed  for  knocking 
them  all  in  the  head,  have  been  coining  and  contriving,  as  usual,  to 
the  injury  of  the  poor  girl,  not  to  speak  of  your  injury.  What  the 
devil  can  she  see  in  that  two-hundred-pouuder,  John  Hurdis,  to  fall 
in  love  with  ?  " 

"  His  money  !" 

"No!  by  G  — d,  Richard,  I'll  not  believe  it !  The  girl  is  too 
humble  in  her  wants,  and  too  content  in  her  poverty,  and  too  gentle 
in  her  disposition,  and  too  sincere  in  her  nature,  to  be  a  thing  of 
barter.  If  she  is  engaged  to  John  Hurdis,  it  is  a  d —  — d  bad  taste, 
to  be  sure,  of  which  I  should  not  have  suspected  her  —  but  it  is  not 
money  !  " 

"There  is  no  disputing  tastes,"  I  rejoined  bitterly  ;  "let  us  sleep 
now." 

"Ah,  Richard,  you  have  an  ugly  sore  on  your  wrist,  which  you 
too  much  love  to  chafe.  You  toil  for  your  own  torture,  man.  You 
labor  for  your  own  defeat.  I  would  you  could  rid  yourself  of  this 
self -troubling  nature.  It  will  madden  you,  yet." 


50  RICHARD  HURDIS. 

"If  it  is  my  nature,  William,"  I  responded  gloomily,  "I  must 
even  make  the  most  of  the  evil,  and  do  as  well  with  it  as  I  can." 

"Do  nothing  with  it  —  have  done  with  it!  Believe  better  of 
yourself  and  others.  Think  better  of  Mary  Easterby  and  your 
brother. " 

"  I  can  not !  You  ask  me  to  think  better  of  them,  yet  name  them 
together.  To  have  been  successful  in  your  wish,  you  should  have 
put  them  as  far  asunder  as  the  poles.  But  say  no  more  to  me  now, 
William.  I  am  already  fevered,  and  can  hear  nothing,  or  heed 
nothing  that  I  hear.  I  must  sleep  now." 

"Well,  as  you  will,  But,  look  out  and  tell  me  what  sort  of  night 
we  have.  I  would  be  sure  of  a  pleasant  day  to-morrow." 

He  was  already  in  his  bed,  and  I  looked  out  as  he  desired.  The 
stars  were  few  and  gave  a  faint  light.  The  winds  were  rising,  and  a 
murmur,  almost  a  moan,  came  from  the  black  forests  in  the  distance 
It  seemed  like  the  voice  of  a  spirit,  and  it  came  to  me  as  if  in  warn 
ing.  I  turned  to  my  companion,  but  he  was  already  asleep.  I  could 
not  then  sleep,  desire  it  as  I  might.  I  envied  him — not  his  happi 
ness,  but  what  I  then  misdeemed  his  insensibility.  I  confounded  the 
quiet  mind,  at  peace  with  all  the  world  and  in  itself  secure,  with  the 
callous  and  unfeeling  nature.  Sleep  is  only  the  boon  of  the  mind 
conscious  of  its  own  rectitude,  and  having  no  jealous  doubts  of  that 
of  its  fellows.  I  had  no  such  consciousness  and  could  not  sleep.  I 
resumed  my  seat  beside  the  window,  and  long  that  night  did  I  watch 
the  scene — lovely  beyond  comparison  —  before,  in  utter  exhaustion,  I 
laid  my  head  upon  the  pillow.  The  night  in  the  forests  of  Alabama 
was  never  more  beautiful  than  then.  There  was  no  speck  in  the 
heaven — not  even  the  illuminated  shadow  of  a  cloud  —  and  the  mur 
mur  of  the  wind  swelling  in  gusts  from  the  close  curtaining  woods, 
was  a  music,  rather  than  a  mere  murmur.  In  the  vexed  condition 
of  my  mood,  the  hurricane  had  been  more  soothing  to  my  rest,  and 
more  grateful  to  my  senses. 


FAREWELL   TO    HOME.  51 


CHAPTER    VII. 

THE    FAREWELL    TO     HOME. 

"  My  father  blessed  me  fervently, 

But  did  not  much  complain  ; 
Yet  sorely  will  my  mother  sigh, 

Till  I  come  home  again. "—BYRON. 

AT  the  dawn  of  day  I  rose,  and,  without  waiting  breakfast 
hurried  off  to  the  habitation  of  my  father.  I  should  have  slept 
at  home  the  last  night,  but  that  I  could  not,  under  my  excited 
state  of  feeling,  have  trusted  myself  to  meet  John  Hurdis.  For 
that  matter,  however,  1  might  have;  safely  ventured ;  for  he, 
probably  with  a  like  caution,  had  also  slept  from  home.  It  was 
arranged  between  William  Carriugton  and  myself  that  we  were 
to  meet  at  mid-day,  at  a  spot  upon  the  road  equidistant  from 
both  plantations,  and  then  proceed  to  together.  The  time  between 
was  devoted  to  our  respective  partings  —  he  with  Emmeline 
AValker,  and  I  with  my  father  and  mother.  Could  it  have  been 
avoided  with  propriety,  I  should  have  preferred  to  leave  this 
duty  undone.  I  wished  to  spare  my  old  mother  any  unneces 
sary  pain.  Besides,  to  look  her  in  the  face,  and  behold  her 
grief  at  the  time  when  I  meditated  to  make  our  separation  a  final 
one,  would,  I  well  kuew>  be  a  trial  of  my  own  strength  to  which  I 
\vas  by  no  means  willing  tc  subject  it.  My  sense  of  duty  forbade  its 
evasion,  however,  and  I  prepared  for  it  with  as  much  manful  resolve 
as  I  could  muster. 

My  mother's  reproaches  were  less  painful  to  me  than  the 
cold  and  sullen  forbearance  of  my  father.  Since  I  had  resolved 
to  work  for  him  no  lenger,  he  did  not  seem  to  care  very  greatly 
where  I  slept.  Not  that  he  was  indifferent;  but  his  annoyance 
at  rny  resolution  to  leave  him  made  him  less  heedful  of  my  ether 


52  RICHARD   HURDIS, 

and  minor  movements ;  so  he  said  nothing  to  me  on  my  return. 
Not  so  my  mother. 

"The  last  night,  Richard,  and  to  sleep  from  home  !  Ah,  my  son, 
you  do  not  think  but  it  may  be  indeed  the  very  last  night !  You 
know  not  what  may  happen  while  you  are  absent.  I  may  be  in  my 
grave  before  you  return." 

I  was  affected  ;  her  tears  always  affected  me  ;  and  her  reproaches 
were  always  softened  by  her  tears.  From  childhood  she  had 
given  me  to  see  that  she  sorrowed  even  when  she  punished  me; 
that  she  shared  in  the  pain  she  felt  it  her  duty  to  inflict. 
How  many  thousand  better  sons  would  there  be  in  the  world,  if 
their  parents  punished  and  rewarded  from  principle,  and  never 
from  passion  or  caprice  ?  I  am  sure,  with  a  temperament  reck 
less  and  impatient  like  mine,  I  should  have  grown  up  to  be 
a  demon,  had  not  my  mother  been  to  me  a  saint.  I  sought  to 
mollify  her. 

"  I  did  wish  to  come,  mother  —  I  feel  the  truth  of  all  you  say  — 
but  there  was  a  circumstance  —  I  had  a  reason  for  staying  away 
last  night." 

"Ay,  to  be  sure,"  said  my  father,  sullenly;  "it  would  not 
be  Richard  Hurdis  if  he  had  not  a  reason  for  doing  what  he 
pleased.  And  pray  what  was  this  good  and  sufficient  reason, 
Richard  ?  " 

"Excuse  me,  sir,  I  would  rather  not  mention  it." 

"Indeed!"  was  the  response;  you  are  too  modest  by  half, 
Richard.  It  is  something  strange  that  you  should  at  any  time  dis 
trust  the  force  of  your  own  arguments." 

I  replied  to  the  sarcasm  camly  — 

"  I  do  not  now,  sir  —  I  only  do  not  care  to  give  unnecessary  par- 
tieulars ;  and  I'm  sure  that  my  mother  will  excuse  them.  I  trust 
that  she  will  believe  what  I  have  already  said,  and  not  require  me  to 
declare  what  I  would  be  glad  to  withhold." 

"Surely,  my  son,"  said  the  old  lady,  and  my  father  remained 
silent.  A  painful  interval  ensued,  in  which  no  one  spoke,  though 
all  wTere  busily  engaged  in  thought.  My  father  broke  the 
silence  by  asking  a  question  which  my  mother  had  not  dared 
to  ask. 

"And  at  what  hour  do  you  go,  Richard?" 

"By  twelve,   sir.      My    horse    is  at    feed    now,   and    I    have 


FAREWELL  TO   HOME.  53 

nothing  but  my  saddle-bags  to  see  to.  You  have  the  biscuit  ready, 
mother,  and  the  venison  ?  " 

"Yes,  my  son;  I  have  put  up  some  cheese  also,  which  you 
will  not  find  in  the  way.  Your  shirts  are  all  done  up,  and  on  the 
bed." 

It  required  some  effort  on  my  mother's  part  to  tell  me  this.  I 
thanked  her,  and  my  father  proceeded  :  — 

"You  will  want  your  money,  Richard,  and  I  will  get  it  for  you 
at  once.  If  you  desire  more  than  I  owe  you,  say  so  ;  I  can  let  you 
have  it." 

"I  thank  you,  sir,  but  I  shall  not  need  it;  my  own  money  will 
be  quite  enough." 

He  had  made  the  proffer  coldly  —  I  replied  proudly  ;  and  he 
moved  away  with  a  due  increase  of  sullenness.  The  quick  instinct 
of  my  mother,  when  my  father  had  gone,  informed  her  of  the  matter 
which  I  had  been  desirous  to  withhold. 

"  You  have  seen  your  brother,  Richard  ?  " 

"How  know  you  ?" 

"Ask  not  a  mother  how  she  knows  the  secret  of  a  son's  nature, 
and  how  she  can  read  those  passions  which  she  has  been  unable  to 
control.  You  have  seen  your  brother,  Richard  —  you  have  quar 
relled  with  him." 

I  looked  down,  and  my  cheeks  burned  as  with  fire.  She  came 
nigh  to  me  and  took  my  hand. 

"Richard,  you  are  about  to  leave  us:  why  can  you  not  forgive 
him  ?  Forget  your  wrongs,  if  indeed  you  have  had  any  at  his 
hands,  and  let  me  no  longer  have  the  sorrow  of  knowing  that  the 
children,  who  have  been  suckled  at  the  same  breasts,  part,  and 
perhaps  for  ever,  as  enemies." 

"Better,  mother,  that  they  should  part  as  enemies,  than  live 
together  as  such.  Your  maternal  instinct  divines  not  all,  mother  — 
short  of  the  truth.  Hear  me  speak,  and  have  your  answer.  I  not 
only  quarrelled  with  John  Hurdis,  yesterd°y,  but  I  laid  violent 
hands  upon  him." 

"  You  did  not — you  could  not !  " 

"  I  must  speak  the  truth,  mother  —  I  did." 

' '  And  struck  him  ? " 

"  No,  but  would  have  done  so,  had  we  not  been  interrupted." 

"Thank  God  for  that.     It  is  well  for  you,  Richard.     I  should 


54  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

have  cursed  you  with  bitterness,  had  you  struck  your  brother  with 
clinched  hands." 

"  I  came  nigh  it,  mother.  He  shook  his  whip  over  my  head,  and 
I  dragged  him  from  his  horse.  I  would  at  that  moment  have  trampled 
him  under  my  very  feet,  but  that  the  voice  of  Mary  Easterby  arrest 
ed  me.  She  came  between  us.  She  alone  —  I  confess  it,  mother  — 
she  alone  kept  me  from  greater  violence . " 

' '  Heaven  bless  her  !  Heaven  bless  the  chance  that  brought  her 
there  !  O  Richard  Hurdis  !  —  my  son,  niy  son  !  —  why  will  you  not 
bear  more  patiently  with  John  ?  why  will  you  not  labor  for  my  sake, 
Richard,  if  not  for  his  and  your  own  ?  " 

She  trembled  as  if  palsied,  while  I  related  to  her  the  adventure  of 
the  preceding  day  ;  and  though  schooled,  as  women  in  the  new  coun 
tries  of  the  South  and  West  are  very  apt  to  be,  against  those  emotions 
which  overcome  the  keener  sensibilities  of  the  sex  in  very  refined 
communities,  yet  I  had  never  seen  her  exhibit  so  much  mental  suffer 
ing  before.  She  tottered  to  a  chair,  at  the  conclusion  of  her  speech, 
refusing  my  offer  to  assist  her,  and,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands, 
wept  without  restraint,  until  suddenly  aroused  to  consciousness  by  the 
approaching  footsteps  of  my  father.  He  was  a  stern  man,  and  gave 
little  heed  and  no  sympathy  to  such  emotions  for  any  cause.  He 
would  have  been  more  ready  to  rebuke  than  to  relieve  them  ;  and  that 
feeling  of  shame  wrhich  forbids  us  to  show  our  sorrows  to  the  un- 
sympathizing,  made  her  hasten  to  clear  up  her  countenance,  and  re 
move  the  traces  of  her  suffering,  as  he  re-entered  the  apartment. 

"  Well,  Richard,"  he  said,  throwing  down  a  handkerchief  of  silver 
dollars  — a  more  profuse  collection  than  is  readily  to  be  met  with  in 
the  same  region  now —  "here  is  your  money  ;  half  in  specie,  half  in 
paper.  It  is  all  your  own  ;  count  it  for  yourself,  and  tell  rne  if  it's 
right." 

"  I'm  satisfied  if  you  have  counted  it,  sir  ;  there's  no  use  in  count 
ing  it  again." 

"  That's  as  you  think  proper,  my  son  ;  yet  I  shall  be  better  satisfied 
if  you  will  count  it. " 

I  did  so  to  please  him,  declared  myself  content,  and  put  the 
money  aside.  This  done,  I  proceeded  to  put  up  my  clothes, 
and  get  myself  in  readiness.  Such  matters  took  but  little  time, 


FAREWELL  TO   HOME.  55 

however  ;  the  last  words  form  the  chief  and  most  serious  business  in 
every  departure.  The  fewer  of  them  the  better. 

So  my  father  thought .  His  farewell  and  benediction  were  equally 
and  almost  mortifyingly  brief  :  — 

"Well,  Richard,  since  it  must  be  :o  —  if  you  will  be  obstinate  — 
if  you  will  go  from  where  yQux_bi^tU-JiajL_been  so  long  buttered  — 
why,  God  send  you  to  a  land  whde  you  won't  feel  the  want  of  those 
you  leave.  I  trust,  however,  to  see  you  return  before  long,  and  go 
hark  to  tftft  n]^j)usiness." 

"Return  I  may,  father,  but  not  to  the  old  business,"  was  my 
prompt  reply;  "  I  have  had  enough  of  that.  If  I  am  able  to  be 
nothing  better  than  an  overseer,  and  to  look  after  the  slaves  of 
others,  the  sooner  I  am  nothing  the  better." 

"You  speak  bravely  now,  boy,"  said  my  father;  "but  the  best 
bird  that  ever  crowed  in  the  morning  has  had  his  tail-feathers 
plucked  before  evening.  Look  to  yourself  my  son  ;  be  prudent  — 
keep  a  bright  eye  about  you  as  you  travel,  and  learn  from  me  what 
your  own  fortunes  have  not  taught  you  yet,  but  what  they  may 
soon  enough  teach  you  unless  you  take  counsel  from  experience  — 
that  there  is  no  chicken  so  scant  of  flesh,  for  which  there  is  not 
some  half-starved  hawk  to  whom  his  lean  legs  yield  good  picking. 
You  have  not  much  money,  but  enough  to  lose,  and  quite  enough 
for  a  sharper  to  win.  Take  care  of  it.  Should  you  find  it  easily 
lost,  come  back,  I  say,  and  you  can  always  find  employment  on  the 
old  terms." 

"I  doubt  it  not,  father — I  doubt  not  to  find  the  same  terms 
anywhere  on  my  route  from  Marengo  to  Yalo-busha.  There  is 
no  lack  of  employment  when  the  pay  is  moderate  and  the  work 
plenty." 

"I  can  get  hundreds  who  will  take  your  place,  Richard,  for  the 
same  price,"  said  my  father,  hastily,  and  with  no  little  dis 
quiet. 

"  And  do  what  I  have  done,  sir?" 

He  did  not  answer  the  question,  but  walked  to  and  fro  for 
several  moments  in  silence,  while  I  spoke  with  my  mother. 

"And  what  about  your  own  negroes,  Richard?"  he  again  ab- 
uptly  addressed  me. 

"Why,  sir,  you  must  work  them  as  usual  if  you  have  no  ob 
jections.  I  shall  have  no  need  of  them  for  the  present." 


56  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

"  Yes,  but  you  may  want  them  when  the  next  year's  crop  is  to  be 
put  into  the  ground." 

"Hardly,  sir — but  if  I  should,  I  will  then  charge  you  nothing  for 
their  time.  It  shall  be  rny  loss." 

"No,  that  it  shall  not  be,  Richard;  you  shall  have  what  is  right 
since  you  leave  it  altogether  to  me.  And  now,  good-by,  I'll  leave 
you  with  your  mother  and  go  into  the  woods  :  you  can  always  talk 
more  freely  with  her  than  you  are  willing  to  talk  with  me  ;  I  don't 

know  why,  unless  it  is  that  I  have  some  d d  surly  ways  about 

me.  Tell  her  if  you  want  anything  from  me,  or  if  I  can  do 
anything  for  you,  don't  spare  your  speech  —  let  her  know  it,  and  if 
it's  to  be  done  at  all,  I'll  do  it.  I  won't  palaver  with  you  about 
my  love  and  all  that  soft  stuff,  but  I  do  love  you  Richard,  as  a 
man  and  no  sneak.  Good-by,  boy  —  good-by  and  take  care  of 
yourself." 

Thus,  after  his  own  rough  fashion,  my  father  spoke  his  part 
ing.  A  fountain  of  good  feeling  was  warm  and  playing  at  his 
heart,  though  it  seemed  stolid  and  impenetrable  as  the  rocky 
surface  that  shut  it  in.  He  was  cold,  and  phlegmatic  in  his 
manner  only.  One  hurried  embrace  was  taken,  and  seizing  his 
staff,  he  disappeared  in  another  instant  from  my  sight.  The 
soul  of  my  mother  seemed  to  expand  at  his  departure.  His 
presence  restrained  her ;  and  with  more  than  woman's  strength, 
she  kept  down,  while  under  the  inspection  of  his  stern  and 
piercing  eye,  all  of  the  warmth  and  tenderness  of  woman  —  of  a 
mother. 

"My  son,  my  son,  you  leave  me,  you  leave  me  doubly 
unhappy — unhappy  as  you  leave  me  and  perhaps  for  ever  — 
unhappy  as  you  leave  me  with  a  deadly  enmity  raging  in 
your  breast  against  your  brother.  Could  you  forget  this 
enmity — could  you  forgive  him  before  you  go,  I  should  be 
half-reconciled  to  your  departure.  I  could  bear  to  look  for 
you  daily  and  to  find  you  not  —  to  call  for  you  hourly,  and 
to  have  no  answer — to  dream  of  your  coming,  and  to  wake  only 
to  desire  to  dream  again.  Can  you  not  forgive  him,  Richard  ? 
Tell  me  that  you  will.  I  pray  you,  my  son,  to  grant  me  this, 
as  a  gift  and  a  blessing  to  myself.  I  will  pray  Heaven  for 
all  gifts  upon  you  in  return.  Think,  my  son,  should  death 
come  among  us  —  should  one  of  us  be  taken  during  the  time 


FAREWELL  TO  HOME.  57 

you  think  to  be  gone — how  dreadful  to  think  of  the  final  separ 
ation  without  peace  being  made  between  us.  Let  there  be 
peace,  my  son.  Dismiss  your  enmity  to  John.  You  know  not 
that  he  has  wronged  you  —  you  know  not  that  he  has  used  any 
improper  arts  with  Mary  —  but  if  he  has,  my  son  —  admitting 
ihat  he  has,  still  I  pray  you  to  forgive  him.  Wherefore  should 
you  not  forgive  him?  Of  what  use  to  cherish  anger?  You  can 
not  contend  with  him  in  violence;  you  must  not,  you  dare  no*, 
as  you  value  a  mother's  blessing,  as  you  dread  a  mother's  curse. 
Such  violence  would  not  avail  to  do  you  justice;  it  could  not  give 
you  what  you  have  lost.  To  maintain  wrath  is  to  maintain  a 
curse  that  will  devour  all  your  substance  and  lastly  devour  your 
self.  Bless  your  poor  mother,  Richard,  and  take  her  blessing  in 
return.  Grant  her  prayer,  and  all  her  prayers  will  go  along  with  you 
for  ever." 

"Mother,  bless  me,  for  I  do  forgive  him." 

Such  were  my  spontaneous  words.  They  came  from  my  un- 
instructed,  untutored,  impulse,  and  at  the  moment  when  I  uttered 
them,  I  believed  fervently,  that  they  came  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart.  I  fear  that  I  deceived  myself.  I  felt  afterward,  as  if  I 
had  not  forgiven,  and  could  not  forgive  him.  But  when  I  spoke, 
I  thought  I  had,  and  could  not  have  spoken  otherwise.  Her 
own  voluminous  and  passionate  appeal,  had  overcome  me,  and 
her  impulse  bore  mine  along  with  it.  I  may  have  deceived  her, 
but  I  as  certainly  deceived  myself.  Be  it  so.  The  error  was  a 
pious  one,  and  made  her  happy;  as  happy,  at  least,  as,  at  that  mo 
ment,  she  could  well  be. 

I  need  not  dwell  upon  our  parting.  It  was  one  of  mixed 
pain  and  pleasure.  It  grieved  me  to  see  how  much  she  suffered, 
yet  it  gratified  my  pride  to  find  how  greatly  I  was  beloved.  Once 
taught  how  delicious  was  the  one  feeling  of  pleasure  which  such  a 
trial  brought  with  it,  I  feel  —  I  fear — that  I  could  freely  have  in 
flicted  the  pain  a  second  time,  if  sure  to  enjoy  the  pleasure.  Such  is 
our  selfishness.  Our  vanity  still  subdues  our  sufferings,  and  our 
pride  derives  its  most  rrateful  aliment  from  that  which  is,  or  should 
be,  our  grief. 

In  an  hour  I  was  on  the  road  with  my  companion,  and  far 
out  of  hearing  of  my  mother's  voice.  And  yet  —  I  heard  it. 

3* 


58  RICHARD    HURDIS. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

ROADSIDE   PROGRESS. 

"  But  with  the  word,  the  time  will  bring  on  summer, 
When  briars  shall  have  leaves  as  well  as  thorns, 
And  be  as  sweet  as  sharp.    We  must  away ; 
Cur  wagon  is  prepared,  and  time  revives  us.1'— SHAKSPERE. 

I  HEARD  it  then — in  long  days  after,  when  she  was  speech 
less,  I  heard  it — I  still  hear  it — I  shall  never  lose  its  lingering 
memories.  They  cling  to  me  with  a  mother's  love;  the  purest, 
the  least  selfish  of  all  human  affections.  The  love  of  woman  is 
a  wondrous  thing,  but  the  love  of  a  mother  is  yet  more  wonder 
ful.  What  is  there  like  it  in  nature?  What  tie  is  there  so 
close,  so  warm,  so  uncalculating  in  its  compliances,  so  unmeas 
ured  in  its  sacrifices,  so  enduring  in  its  tenacious  tenderness? 
It  may  accompany  the  feeble  intellect,  the  coarse  form,  the  equivocal 
virtue;  but,  in  itself,  it  is  neither  feeble,  nor  coarse,  nor  equivocal. 
It  refines  vulgarity,  it  softens  violence,  it  qualifies  and  chastens, 
even  when  it  may  not  redeem,  all  other  vicGs.  I  am  convinced 
that,  of  all  human  affections,  it  is  endowed  with  the  greatest 
longevity;  it  is  the  most  hardy,  if  not  the  most  acute  in  its  vi 
tality.  Talk  of  the  love  of  young  people  for  one  another;  it  is 
not  to  be  spoken  of  in  the  same  breath;  nothing  can  be  more 
inferior.  Such  love  is  of  the  earth,  earthy  —  a  passion  born  of 
tumults,  wild  and  fearful  as  the  storm,  and  yet  more  capricious. 
An  idol  of  clay  —  a  miserable  pottery,  the  work,  which  in  a  fit  of 
frenzied  devotion  we  make  with  our  own  hands,  and  in  another,  and 
not  more  mad  fit  of  brutality,  we  trample  to  pieces  with  our 
feet.  Appetite  is  the  fiend  that  degrades  every  passion,  and  the 
flame,  of  which  it  is  a  part,  must  always  end  in  smoke  and 
ashes. 

Thus  I  mused  when  I   encountered  my  friend  and  companion 


ROADSIDE    PROGRESS.  59 

He  was  in  fine  spirits;  overjoyed  with  the  novelty  of  the  situa 
tion  in  which  he  found  himself.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
he  was  a  traveller,  and  his  nature  was  one  of  those  that  corre 
spond  with  the  generous  season,  and  keep  happy  in  spite  of  the 
cloudy.  Ilis  soul  began  to  expand  with  the  momentarily  increas 
ing  consciousness  of  its  freedom;  and  when  he  described  to  me  the 
swreet  hour  which  had  just  terminated,  and  which  he  had 
employed  for  his  parting  with  Emmeline  Walker,  he  absolutely 
shouted.  His  separation  from  his  former  home,  his  relatives, 
and  the  woman  whom  he  loved,  was  very  different  from  mine; 
and  his  detail  of  his  own  feelings,  and  his  joys  and  hopes,  only 
added  bitterness  to  mine.  Going  and  coming,  the  world  smiled 
upon  him.  Backward  and  forward,  an  inviting  prospect  met 
his  eyes.  He  saw  no  sun  go  down  in  night.  He  was  conscious 
of  no  evening  not  hallowed  by  a  moon.  Happy  world,  where 
the  blessed  and  blessing  heart  moves  the  otherwise  disobedient 
and  froward  elements  as  it  pleases,  banishes  the  clouds,  suspends 
the  storm,  and  lighting  up  the  sky  without,  from  the  heaven 
within,  casts  for  ever  more  upon  it,  the  smile  of  a  satis 
fied  and  indulgent  Deity.  The  disappointed  demon  in  my  soul 
actually  chafed  to  hear  the  self-gratulations  of  the  delighted 
God  in  his. 

And  yet  what  had  been  my  reflections  but  a  moment  before  ! 
To  what  conclusion  had  1  come?  In  what  —  supposing  me  to 
have  been  right  in  that  conclusion  —  in  what  respect  was  his 
fortune  belter  than  mine?  In  what  resect  was  it  half  so 
good  ?  The  love  of  the  sexes  I  had  proclaimed  worthless  and 
vulnerable  ;  that  of  a  mother  beyond  all  price.  I  had  a  mother, 
a  fond,  unselfish  mother,  and  Carrington  was  an  orphan.  He 
had  only  that  love,  which  I  professed  to  think  so  valueless. 
But  did  I  seriously  think  so  ?  What  an  absurdity.  The  love 
of  the  young  for  each  other  is  a  property  of  the  coming  time, 
and'  it  is  the  coming  time  for  which  the  young  must  live.  That 
of  a  mother  is  a  love  of  the  past,  or,  at  the  best,  of  the  present 
only.  It  can  not,  in  the  ordinary  term  of  human  allotment, 
last  us  while  we  live.  It  is  not  meant  that  it  should,  and  the  Provi 
dence  that  beneficently  cares  for  us  always,  even  when  we 
are  least  careful  of  ourself,  has  wisely  prompted  us  to  seek  and 
desire  that  love  which  may.  It  was  an  instinct  that  made  me 


60  KICHARD   HURDIS. 

envy  my  companion,  in  spite  of  my  own  philosophy.  I  would  have 
given  up  the  love  of  a  thousand  mothers  to  be  secure  of  that  of 
Mary  Easterby. 

I  strove  to  banish  thought,  by  referring  to  the  most  ordinary 
matters  of  conversation  ;  matters,  indeed,  about  which  I  did  not 
care  a  straw.  In  this  way,  I  strove,  not  only  to  dispel  my  own 
topics  of  grief,  but  to  silence  those  of  triumph  in  my  companion. 
What  did  I  care  to  hear  of  Emmeline  Walker,  and  how  she 
loved  him,  and  how  she  cheered  him,  with  a  manly  spirit,  on  a 
journey  from  which  other  and  perhaps  finer  damsels  would  have 
sought  to  discourage  their  lovers ;  and  how  she  bade  him  return 
as  soon  as  he  had  bought  the  lands  on  which  they  were  to  settle  all 
their  future  lives  ?  This  was  talk  no  less  provoking  than  unneces 
sary  ;  and  it  was  not  without  some  difficulty  that  I  could  divert 
him  from  it.  And  even  then  my  success  was  only  partial.  He  was 
forever  getting  back  to  it  again. 

"And  what  route  are  we  to  take,  William?"  I  demanded, 
when  we  had  reached  a  point  of  fork  in  the  road.  "You  spoke 
yesterday  of  going  up  by  way  of  Tuscaloosa.  But  if  you  can  do 
without  taking  that  route,  it  will  be  the  better;  it  is  forty  miles  out 
of  our  road  to  Columbus,  and  unless  you  have  some  business  there, 
I  see  no  reason  to  go  that  way.  The  town  is  new,  and  has  nothing 
worth  seeing  in  it." 

"It  is  not  that  I  go  for,  Richard.  I  have  some  money  owing 
me  in  that  neighborhood.  There  is  one  Matthew  Webber,  who 
lives  a  few  miles  on  the  road  from  Tuscaloosa  to  Columbus,  who 
owres  me  a  hundred  and  thirty  dollars  for  a  mule  I  sold  him  last 
spring  was  a  year.  I  have  his  note.  The  money  was  due  five 
months  ago,  and  it  needs  looking  after.  I  don't  know  much  of 
Webber,  and  think  very  little  of  him.  The  sooner  I  get  the 
money  out  of  his  hands,  the  better,  and  the  better  chance  then  of 
his  paying  me.  I'm  afraid,  if  he  stands  off  much  longer,  he'll 
stand  off  for  ever,  and  I  may  then  whistle  for  my  money." 

"You  are  wise;  and  forty  miles  is  no  great  difference  to  those 
who  have  good  horses.  So  speed  on  to  the  right.  It's  a  rascally 
road,  let  me  tell  you.  I  have  ridden  it  before." 

"I  know  nothing  about  it;  but,  thank  the  stars,  I  care  as 
little.  When  a  man's  heart  is  in  the  right  place,  sound  and 
satisfied,  it  matters  not  much  what  is  the  condition  of  the  road 


ROADSIDE  PROGRESS.  61 

he  travels.     One  bright  smile,  one  press  of  the  hand  from  Em- 
meline,  makes  all  smooth,  however  rough  before." 

I  struck  the  spurs  into  my  horse's  flanks  impatiently.  He 
saw  the  movement,  and,  possibly,  the  expression  of  my  coun 
tenance,  and  laughed  aloud. 

"Ah,  Dick,  you  take  things  to  heart  too  seriously.  What  if 
you  are  unfortunate,  man  ?  You  are  not  the  first  —  you  will  not 
be  the  last.  You  are  in  a  good  and  godly  company.  Console 
yourself,  man,  by  taking  it  for  granted  that  Mary  has  been  le«B 
wise  than  you  thought  her,  and  that  you  have  made  a  more  for 
tunatc  escape  that  you  can  well  appreciate  at  present." 

"  Pshaw  !  I  think  not  of  it,"  was  my  peevish  reply.  "  Let  us 
talk  of  other  matters." 

"  Agreed.  But  what  other  matters  to  talk  of  that  shall  please 
you,  Richard,  is  beyond  my  knowledge  now.  My  happiness, 
at  this  moment,  will  be  sure  to  enter  into  everything  I  say  ;  as 
I  certainly  can  think  of  no  more  agreeable  subject.  I  shall 
gpeak  of  Emmeline,  and  that  will  remind  you  of  Mary,  however 
different  may  be  their  respective  treatment  of  us.  If  I  talk  of 
the  land  I  am  looking  for,  and  resolve  to  settle  on,  you  will  be 
gin  to  brood  over  the  solitary  life  in  store  for  you ;  unless,  as  1 
think  very  likely,  it  will  not  be  long  before  you  console  your 
self  with  some  Mississippi  maiden,  who  will  save  you  the  trouble 
of  looking  for  lands,  and  the  cost  of  paying  for  them,  by  bring- 
big  you  a  comfortable  portion." 

"  I  am  not  mercenary,  William,"  was  my  answer,  somewhat 
more  temperately  spoken  than  usual.  1  had  discovered  the 
weakness  of  which  I  had  been  guilty,  and  at  once  resolved  that, 
though  I  was  not  successful,  I  would  not  be  surly.  Indeed,  a 
playful  commentary,  which  Carrington  uttered  about  my  savage 
demeanor,  brought  me  back  to  my  senses.  It  was  in  reply  to 
some  uncivil  sarcasm  of  mine. 

"  Hush,  man  !  hush  !  Because  you  have  been  buffeted,  you 
need  not  be  a  bear !  Let  the  blows  profit  you  as  they  do  a 
beefsteak,  and  though  I  would  not  have  your  tenderness  in 
creased  by  the  process,  Heaven  keep  you  from  any  increase  of 
toughness!  Forgive  me,  my  dear  fellow,' for  being  so  happy  1 
I  know  well  enough  that,  to  the  miserable,  the  good  humor  of 
one's  neighbors  is  sheer  impertinence.  But  I  am  more  than  a 


62  RICHARD 

neighboi  to  you,  Dick  Hurdis  !  I  am  a  friend  ;  and  you  must 
forgive  mine !" 

"Ay,  that  I  do,  William!"  I  answered  frankly,  and  laking 
his  hand  while  I  spoke.  "  I  will  not  only  forgive,  but  to'^rate 
your  happiness.  You  shall  see  that  I  will ;  and  to  prove  't  to 
you,  I  beg  that  you  will  talk  on,  and  only  talk  of  that.  W  ''at 
were  EmmeHne'fl  last  words  ?" 

**  Come  back  soon." 


And  she  smiled  when  she  said  tkem  » 


"  Ay ;  that  was  the  strangest  thing  of  all,  Richard.  She  did 
smile  when  we  parted,  and  neither  then  nor  at  any  time  since  I 
have  known  her,  have  I  ever  seen  her  shed  a  tear.  I  almost 
bleated  like  a  calf." 

•4  She  is  a  strong  woman,  high-spirited,  firm,  and  full  of  char 
acter.  She  does  not  feel  the  less  for  not  showing  her  feelings 
Still  water  runs  deep." 

"  A  suspicious  proverb,  Richard !  One  that  has  too  many 
meanings  to  be  complimentary.  Nevertheless,  you  are  quit* 
right.  Emmeline  is  a  still  girl  —  thinks  more  than  she  sayf 
— feels  more  than  she  will  acknowledge;  and  loves  the  mor* 
earnestly  that  she  does  not  proclaim  it  from  the  pine-tops 
Your  professing  women,  like  your  professing  men,  are  all  puff 
and  plaster.  They  know  their  own  deficiencies,  and  in  the  ID 
ventory  which  they  make  of  their  virtues,  take  good  care  to 
set  them  down  as  the  very  chattels  in  possession.  Like  church- 
builders  and  church-goers,  the)1  voek  to  make  up  for  the  substan- 
tials,  which  they  have  not,  by  the  shows  and  symbols  which  be 
long  to  them ;  and,  truth  to  say,  such  is  the  universality  of  this 
habit,  that,  now-a-days,  no  one  looks  further  than  the  surplice, 
and  the  color  of  the  cloth.  Forms  are  virtues,  and  names  things. 
You  remember  the  German  story,  where  the  devil  bought  the 
man's  shadow  in  preference  to  his  soul.  Heaven  help  mankind, 
were  the  devil  disposed  to  pursue  his  trade !  What  universal 
bankruptcy  among  men  would  follow  the  loss  of  their  shadows ! 
How  the  church  would  groan  —  the  pillars  crumble  arid  fall  — 
the  surplice  and  the  black  coat  shrivel  and  stink  !  What  a  loss 
would  there  be  of  demure  looks  and  saintly  faces — of  groaning 
and  psalm-singing  tradesmen — men  who  seek  to  make  a  broth 
erhood  and  sisterhood  in  order  to  carry  their  calicoes  to  a  good 


KOADSIDE   PROGRESS.  63 

market  !  Well,  thank  heaven  !  the  country  to  which  we  are 
now  bending  our  steps,  Richard,  is  not  yet  overrun  by  these 
saintly  hypocrites.  Time  will  come,  I  doubt  not,  when  wre  shall 
have  them  where  the  Choctaws  now  hunt  and  pow-wow,  making 
long  prayers,  and  longer  sermons,  and  concluding,  as  usual,  with  a 
collection." 

"It  may  be  that  the  country  is  quite  as  full  of  rascals,  William, 
though  it  may  lack  hypocrites.  We  have  bold  villains  in  place 
of  cunning  ones,  and  whether  we  fare  better  or  worse  than  the  city 
in  having  them,  is  a  question  not  easily  decided.  We  shall  have 
need  of  all  our  caution  in  our  travelling.  I  have  no  fear  of  the 
Indians  while  they  are  sober-,  and  it  will  not  be  hard  to  avoid  them 
when  they  are  drunk;  but  we  have  heard  too  many  stories  of 
outlaws  and  robbery  on  the  borders  of  the  nation  and  within  it, 
where  the  villains  were  not  savages,  to  render  necessary  any  par 
ticular  counsel  to  cither  of  us  now." 

"I  don't  believe  the  half  of  what  I  hear  of  these  squatters. 
No  doubt,  they  are  a  rough  enough  set  of  people;  but  what  of 
that?  Let  them  but  give  us  fair  play,  and,  man  to  man,  I  think, 
we  need  not  fear  them.  I  know  that  you  can  fling  a  stout  fellow 
with  a  single  flirt,  and  I  have  a  bit  of  muscle  here  that  has  not 
often  met  its  match.  I  fear  not  your  bold  boys  —  let  them  come. 
It  is  your  city  sneaks,  Richard,  tbat  I  don't  like;  your  saintly, 
demure,  sly  rogues,  that  pray  for  you  at  the  supper-table,  and  pick 
your  pocket  when  you  sleep." 

Carrington  extended  his  brawny  and  well-shaped  arm  as  he 
spoke,  giving  it  a  glance  of  unconcealed  admiration.  He  did 
not  overrate  his  own  powers;  but,  in  speaking  of  rogues,  and 
referring  to  their  practices,  it  was  no  part  of  my  notion  that 
they  would  ever  give  us  fair  play.  I  told  him  that,  and  by  a 
natural  transition,  passed  to  another  topic  of  no,  little  importance  on 
the  subject. 

"I  don't  fear  anything  from  open  violence,  William,"  was  my 
reply.  "You  know  enough  of  me  for  that;  but  men.  who  aim  to 
rob,  will  always  prefer  to  prosecute  their  schemes  by  art  rather 
than  boldness.  Valor  does  not  often  enter  into  the  composition  of  a 
rogue.  Now,  I  have  enough  money  about  me  to  tempt  a  rascal,  and 
more  than  I  am  willing  to  surrender  to  one.  You  have,  probably, 
brought  a  large  sum  with  you  also." 


RICHARD    HUBDI8. 

"  All  I  have ;  three  thousand  dollars,  more  or  less,  in  United 
States  bank  bills,  some  few  Alabama,  and  Georgia,  all  passable 
at  the  land-office,"  was  his  reply. 

"  The  greater  need  of  caution.  There  are  land-pirates  on 
the  Black  Warrior,  and  Alabama,  who  are  said  to  be  worse  by 
far  than  the  pirates  of  the  gulf.  Look  to  it,  William,  and  keep 
your  money  out  of  sight.  The  more  poor  your  pretensions,  the 
more  certain  your  safety.  Show  no  more  money  than  you  wish 
to  spend." 

"  I  will  not,  Richard ;  and  yet  I  should  have  no  objection  to 
put  my  money  down  upon  the  butt-end  of  a  log,  and  take  a  hug 
with  any  pirate  of  them  all  who  should  have  it." 

"  More  brave  than  wise,"  was  my  reply.  "  But  let  us  have 
no  more  of  this ;  there  are  travellers  before  and  behind  us. 
Let  our  circumspection  begin  from  this  moment.  We  have  both 
need  of  it,  being  at  greater  risk,  as  we  bring,  like  a  terrapin, 
our  homes  and  all  that  is  in  them,  on  our  backs.  You  have  too 
much  money  about  you.  In  that,  William,  you  were  anything 
but  wise.  I  wish  I  had  counselled  you.  You  could  have  en 
tered  the  lands  with  one  fourth  of  it.  But  it  is  too  late  now  to 
repent.  You  must  be  watchful  only.  I  am  not  at  so  great  a 
risk  as  you,  but  I  have  quite  enough  to  tempt  a  Red  river  gam 
bler  to  his  own  ruin  and  mine." 

"  I  shall  heed  you,"  replied  my  companion,  buttoning  his 
coat,  and  turning  the  butt  of  a  pistol  in  his  b^som,  making  it 
more  convenient  to  his  grasp.  "  But  who  are  these  travellers  ? 
Settlers  from  North  Carolina,  I  reckon.  Poor  devils  from  Tar 
river  as  usual,  going,  they  know  not  where,  to  get,  they  knew 
not  what." 

"  They  can  not  go  to  a  poorer  region,  nor  fare  much  worse  than 
they  have  done,  if  your  guess  be  right." 

"  I'll  lay  a  picayune  upon  it.  They  look  sleepy  and  poor 
enough  to  have  lived  at  Tar  river  a  thousand  yeais  But,  we 
ahall  see  " 


CHAPTER    IX 

TUB    KMHiRANTS. 

An  aged  man  whose  head  some  seventy  y»an 
Had  snowed  on  freely,  led  I  lie  caravan  ; — 
His  sons' and  sons'  sons,  and  their  families. 
Tall  youths  and  sunny  maiden?  —  a  glad  group 
Thar,  glowed  in  generous  Mood,  and  had  no  care, 
And  little  thought  of  the  future,  followed  !i m  :  — 
Some  perched  on  gallant  steeds  —  others  IIKM--  slow, 
Th"  infants  imd  the  matrons  of  the  flock, 
In  ooach  and  jersey  —  hut  all  moving  on 
To  the  new  land  of  promise,  full  of  dreams 
Of  western  riches,  Mississippi  mad!" 

BY  tliis  time  we  had  overtaken  the  cavalcade,  and  sure 
enough,  it  turned  out  as  my  companion  had  conjectured.  The 
wanderers  were  from  one,  of  the  poorest  parts  of  North  Caroli 
na,  bent  to  better  their  condition  in  the  western  valleys,  "  full 
of  dreams,"  and  as  ^ne  of  our  southern  poets,  whom  I  quote 
above,  energetically  expresses  it,  "Mississippi  mad."  They 
consisted  of  several  families,  three  or  four  in  number,  all  from 
the  same  neighborhood,  who  were  thus  making  a  colonizing 
expedition  of  it ;  and  as  they  had  all  along  formed  a  little 
world  to  themselves  before,  now  resolving  with  a  spirit  not  less 
arise  than  amiable,  to  preserve  the  same  social  and  domestic 
relations  in  the  new  regions  to  which  they  bent  their  steps. 
They  thus  carry  with  them  the  morals  and  the  manners  to 
which  they  have  been  accustomed,  and  find  a  natural  home  ac 
cordingly  wherever  they  go.  But  even  this  arrangement  does  not 
supply  their  loss,  and  the  social  moralist  may  well  apprehend 
the  deterioration  of  the  graces  of  society  in  every  desertion  by 
a  people  of  their  ancient  homes.  Though  men  may  lose  noth 
ing  of  their  fecundity  by  wandering,  and  in  emigration  to  tht 


66  UTCHARD    HURDI?. 

west  from  a  sterile  region  like  North  Carolina,  most  commonly, 
gain  in  their  worldly  goods,  their  losses  are  yet  incomputable. 
The  delicacies  of  society  are  most  usually  thrust  from  the  sight 
of  the  pioneers  ;  the  nicer  harmonies  of  the  moral  world  become 
impaired;  the  sweeltr  coivu  of  affection  are  undone  or  rudely 
snapped  asunder,  and  a  rude  indifference  to  the  claims  of  one's 
fellow,  must  follow  every  breaking  up  of  the  old  and  station 
ary  abodes.  The  wandering  habits  of  our  people  are  the  great 
obstacles  to  their  perfcr  civilization.  These  habits  are  encour 
aged  by  the  cheapness  of  our  public  lands,  and  their  constant 
exposure  for  sale.  The  morals  not  less  than  the  manners  of 
our  people  are  diseased  by  the  license  of  the  wilderness ;  and  the 
remoteness  of  the  white  settler  from  his  former  associates  approxi 
mate  him  to  the  savage  feebleness  of  the  Indian,  who  has  been 
subjugated  and  expelled  simply  because  of  his  inferior  morality. 

We  joined  the  wayfarers,  and  accommodating  our  pace  to  the 
slow  and  weary  movement  of  their  cavalcade,  kept  with  them 
long  enough  to  answer  and  to  ask  a  hundred  questions.  They 
were  a  simple  and  hard>  people,  looking  poor,  but  proud ;  and 
though  evidently  neither  ericvprising  nor  adventurous,  yet, 
once  abroad  and  in  the  tempe&t,  sutHciently  strong  and  bold  to 
endure  and  to  defy  its  buffeting.  There  was  a  venerable  grand 
father  of  the  flock,  one  of  the  finest  heads  I  ever  looked  upon, 
who  mingled  the  smiling  elasticity  of  youth,  with  the  garrulity 
of  age.  He  spoke  as  sanguinely  of  his  future  prospects  in  Mis 
sissippi,  as  if  he  were  only  now  about  to  commence  the  world ; 
and  while  he  spoke,  his  eyes  danced  and  twinkled  with  delight 
and  his  laugh  rang  through  the  forests,  with  such  fervor  and 
life,  that  an  irrepressible  sympathy  made  me  laugh  with  him, 
and  forget,  for  a  moment,  my  own  dull  misgivings,  and  heavy 
thoughts.  His  mirth  was  infectious,  and  old  and  young  shared 
in  it,  as  most  probably  they  had  done  irom  childhood.  We 
ro  le  off,  leaving  them  in  a  perfect  gale  of  delighted  merriment, 
having  their  best  wishes,  and  giving  them  ours  in  return. 

To  one  ignorant  of  the  great  West ;  to  the  dweller  in  the 
Eastern  cities  —  accustomed  o*\lv  to  the  dull,  unbroken  routine 
of  a  life  of  trade,  which  is  at  r<»st  only  disturbed  by  some  splen 
did  forgery,  or  a  methodical  and  fortunate  bankruptcy,  which 
makes  the  bankrupt  rich  at  the  expense  of  a  cloud  of  confiding 


THE   EMIGRANTS.  67 

creditors — the  variety,  and  the  vicissitudes  of  forest  life,  form 
a  series  of  interesting  romances.  The  very  love  of  change, 
which  is  the  marked  charajtei  istic  of  our  people  in  reference 
to  their  habitations,  is  productive  of  constant  adventures,  to 
hear  which,  the  ears  tingle,  and  the  pulses  bound.  The  mere 
movement  of  the  self-expatriated  wanderer,  with  his  motley 
caravan,  large  or  small,  as  it  winds  its  way  through  the  circuit 
ous  forests,  or  along  the  buffalo  tracks,  in  the  level  prairies,  is 
picturesque  in  the  last  degree.  And  this  picturesqueness  is  not 
a  whit  diminished  by  the  something  of  melancholy,  which  a 
knowledge  of  the  facts  provokes  necessarily  in  the  mind  of  the 
observer.  Not  that  they  who  compose  the  cavalcade,  whether 
masters  or  men,  women  or  children,  are  troubled  with  any  of 
this  feeling.  On  the  contrary,  they  are  usually  j'.yful  and  light 
spirited  enough.  It  is  in  the  thoughts  and  fancies  of  the  spec 
tator  only  that  gloo»n  hangs  over  the  path,  and  clouds  the  for 
tune  of  the  wayfarer.  He  thinks  of  the  deserted  country  which 
they  have  left  —  of  the  cottage  overgrown  with  weeds  —  of  the 
young  children  carried  into  wildernesses,  where  no  sabbath 
bell  invites  them  to  A  decorous  service  —  where  the  schoohnas 
ter  is  never  seen,  or  is  of  little  value  —  and  where,  if  fortune 
deigns  to  smile  upon  the  desires  of  the  cultivator,  the  wealth  which 
he  gains,  descends  to  a  race,  uninformed  in  any  of  its  duties,  and, 
therefore,  wholly  ignorant  of  its  proper  uses.  Wealth,  under 
such  circumstances,  becomes  a  curse,  and  the  miserable  possessor 
a  victim  to  the  saddest  error  that  ever  tempted  the  weak  mind, 
and  derided  it  in  its  overthrow. 

These  thoughts  force  themselves  upon  you  as  you  behold  the 
patient  industry  of  the  travellers  while  they  slowly  make  the'' 
#ay  through  the  tedious  forests.  Their  equipage,  their  arrange 
nients,  the  evidence  of  the  wear  and  tear  inevitable  in  a  loi 
journey,  and  conspicuous  in  shattered  vehicles  and  bandaged 
harness,  the  string  of  wagons  of  all  shapes,  sorts,  and  sizes,  the 
mud-bespattered  carriages,  once  finely  varnished,  in  which  the 
lady  and  the  children  ride,  the  riery  horse  of  the  son  in  hia 
teens,  the  chunky  poney  of  the  no  less  daring  boy,  the  wrig 
gling  jersey —  the  go-cart  with  the  little  negro  children ;  anc 
the  noisy  whoop  of  blacks  of  both  sexes,  mounted  and  afoo*,, 
and  taking  it  by  turns  to  ride  or  walk  —  however  cheering  all 


RICHARD    HURDIS. 

those  may  seem  at  a  first  sight,  as  a  novelty,  removing  tht 
sense  of  loneliness  which  yon  may  have  felt  before,  can  not  but 
impress  upon  you  a  sentiment  of  gloom,  which  will  not  be  les 
sened  as  you  watch  their  progress.  Their  very  light-hearted- 
ness —  so  full  of  hope  and  confidence  as  it  denotes  them  to  be, 
is  a  subject  of  doubtful  reflection.  Will  their  hopes  be  confirm 
ed  ?  Will  the  dreams  so  seducing  to  them  now,  be  realized  ? 
Will  they  find  the  fortune  which  tempted  them  to  new  homes 
and  new  dangers  ?  Will  they  even  be  secure  of  health,  with 
out  which  wealth  is  a  woful  mockery.  These  are  doubts  which 
may  well  make  the  thoughtful  sad,  and  the  doubtful  despondent 
And  yet  the  wayfarers  themselves  feel  but  little  of  this. 
Their  daily  progress,  and  the  new  objects  of  interest  that  now 
and  then  p-esent  themselves,  divert  them  from  troublous  thoughts 
The  lands,  the  woods,  the  waters,  that  attract  the  eye  of  the 
planter  on  every  side,  serve  to  fix  his  attention  and  keep  it  in 
constant  exercise  and  play.  They  travel  slowly,  but  twelve  or 
fifteen  miles  a  day,  and  by  night  they  encamp  upon  the  road 
side,  hew  down  a  tree,  clear  the  brush,  and  build  up  fires  that 
illuminate  the  woods  for  miles  round.  Strange,  fantastic  forms 
danee  in  the  mazes  which  the  light  makes  among  the  receding 
trees ;  and  the  boisterous  song  of  the  woodman,  and  the  un 
measured  laugh  of  the  negro,  as  he  rends  the  bacon  with  his 
teeth  and  fingers,  and  hearkens  to  the  ready  joke  of  his  com 
panion  the  while,  convey  no  faint  idea  of  those  German  stories 
of  the  wild  men,  or  demons  of  the  Ilartz  Mountains  or  the 
Black  Forest,  which  we  can  not  but  admire,  however  uncouth, 
grotesque,  and  disproport.ioned,  for  their  felicitous  and  playful 
ngenuity.  The  watch-dog  takes  his  place  under  the  wagon 
by  night,  sometimes  he  sleeps  within  it,  and  upon  the  baggage. 
The  men  crouch  by  the  fire,  while  rude  and  temporary  couches 
of  bush  and  blanket  are  made  for  the  women  and  the  children 
of  the  party.  These  arrangements  necessarily  undergo  changes 
according  to  circumstances.  The  summer  tempests  compel  a 
more  compact  disposition  of  their  force ;  the  sudden  storm  by 
u»ght  drives  the  more  weak  and  timid  to  the  deserted  house, 
•>r  If  tb«»re  be  none  in  the  neighborhood,  to  the  bottom  of  the 
•  .gon.  where  they  are  sheltered  by  skins  or  blankets,  with 
b.oi  of  which  the  accustomed  traveller  is  usually  wall  provided 


THE    EMIGRANTS.  G) 

Before  the  dawn  of  day  they  are  prepared  to  renew  their  joar 
nej  with  such  thoughts  as  their  dreams  or  their  slumbers  ot 
the  night  have  rendered  most  active  in  their  imaginations.  The 
old  are  usually  thoughtful  when  they  rise,  the  young  hopeful 
Some  few  of  both  are  sad,  as  an  obtrusive  memory  haunts  them 
wiiJi  threatening  or  imploring  shadows.  Others  again,  and  not 
the  smaller  number,  cheerily  set  forth  singing,  the  first  day  be 
ing  safely  passed  —  singing  some  country  ditty;  and  when 
they  meet  with  travellers  like  themselves  —  an  event,  which, 
in  our  western  woods,  may  be  likened  to  a  "sail"  at  sea- 
cracking  with  them  some  hearty  joke  upon  their  prospect?, 
trim  and  caparison,  with  a  glee  that  would  startle  the  nerves 
and  astound  the  measured  sensibilities  of  the  quiet  occupant  of 
more  civilized  abodes. 

The  negroes  are  particularly  famous  for  the  light-licartedr.css 
of  their  habit  while  journeying  in  this  manner.  You  Avill  some 
times  see  ten  or  twenty  of  them  surrounding  a  jersey  wagon, 
listening  to  the  rude  harmony  of  some  cracked  violin  in  the 
hands  of  the  driver,  and  dancing  and  singing  as  they  koep  time 
with  his  instrument,  and  pace  with  his  horse.  The  grin  of 
their  mouths,  the  white  teeth  shining  through  the  glossy  black 
of  their  faces,  is  absolutely  irresistible ;  while  he,  perched,  as  I 
have  often  seen  him,  upon  the  fore-seat,  the  reins  loosely  flung 
over  his  left  arm,  in  the  hand  of  which  is  grasped  the  soiled  and 
shattered  instrument,  the  seams  and  cracks  of  which  are  care 
fully  stopped  with  tar  or  pine-gum ;  while  the  bow  in  his  right 
hf*nd  scrapes  away  unmercifully  until  it  extorts  from  the  reluc- 
'*ant  strings  the  quantity  of  melody  necessary  to  satisfy  the  arna- 
;eur  who  performs,  or  the  self-taught  connoiseurs  who  hearken 
to  and  depend  upon  him. 

Sometimes  the  whites  hover  nigh,  not  less  delighted  than 
their  slaves,  and  partaking,  though  with  a  less  ostentatious  show 
of  interest,  in  the  pleasure  and  excitement  which  such  an  exhi 
bition,  under  such  circumstances,  is  so  well  calculated  to  inspire. 
Sometimes  the  grinning  Momus  of  the  group  is  something  more 
than  a  mere  mechanician,  and  adds  the  interest  of  improvisation 
to  the  doubtful  music  of  his  violin.  I  have  heard  one  of  these 
performers  sing,  as  he  went,  verges  suited  to  the  scene  around 
him,  in  very  tolerable  rhythm,  which  weie  evidentlv  fl*:ng  i»6 


70  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

as  he  went.  The  verses  were  full  of  a  rough  humor  which  is 
characteristic  of  all  inferior  people.  In  these  he  satarized  his 
companions  without  mercy;  ridiculed  the  country  which  he  left, 
no  less  than  that  to  which  he  was  going;  and  did  not  spare  his  own 
master,  whom  he  compared  to  a  squirrel  that  had  lived  upon  good 
corn  so  long,  that  he  now  hungered  for  bad,  in  his  desire  of  change. 
This  was  a  native  figure,  by  which  his  fruitless  and  unprofitable 
discontent  with  what  was  good  in  his  previous  condition  was  clearly 
bodied  forth.  The  worthy  owner  heard  the  satire,  with  which  he 
was  not  less  pleased  than  the  other  hearers,  who  were  so  much  less 
interested  in  it.  Enough  of  episode.  We  will  now  resume  our 
progress. 


«OQD   AND   EVIL  SPIRITS.  ?1 


CHAPTER   X. 

GOOD    AND    EVIL   SPIRITS. 

Had  she  no  lover  there 
That  wails  her  absence? 

Troilu*.  0,  sir,  to  such  as,  boasting,  b/iow  their  scars, 
A  mock  is  due.     Will  you  walk  on.  my  lord? 
She  was  beloved  —  she  loved  —  she  ia,  and  doth  — 
But  still,  sweet  love  is  food  for  fortune's  tooth. 

Troilus  and 


THAT  night  we  slept  at  a  miserable  hovel,  consisting  of  bnt 
one  apartment,  into  which  the  whole  family,  husband,  wife, 
three  children,  and  ourselves,  were  oddly  clustered  together. 
The  house  was  of  logs,  and  the  rain,  which  fell  in  torrents  be 
fore  we  sought  shelter  in  so  foul  a  sty,  came  through  upon  the 
trundle-bed  in  which  we  strove  to  sleep.  Still  we  had  no  occa 
sion  for  discontent.  The  poor  wretches  who  kept  the  hovel 
gave  us  the  best  they  had.  A  supper  of  bacon,  eggs,  and  hoe- 
cake,  somewhcit  consoled  us  for  the  doubtful  prospect  in  our 
eyes  ;  and  our  consolation  was  complete,  when,  at  rising  in  the 
morning,  we  found  that  the  storm  had  passed  over,  and  we  were 
in  safety  k>  depart.  We  had  not  been  so  sure  that  such  would 
be  the  case  at  retiring  for  the  night.  Our  host  had  quite  a  cut 
throat  and  hang-dog  expression,  and  we  lay  with  dirk  and  pis 
tol  at  hand,  reaclv  for  the  last  emergencies.  Fortunately,  we 
had  no  need  to  uso  them  ;  and,  bestowing  a  couple  of  dollars 
upon  the  children,  for  their  parents  refused  all  pay,  we  sallied 
forth  upon  our  journey.  That  night  we  arrived  at  Tuscaloosa, 
a  town  now  of  considerable  size,  of  increasing  prosperity  and 
population,  but.  at  the  time  of  our  visit,  but  little  more  than 
opened  in  the  woods.  Here  we  took  lodgings  at  the  only  hotel 
in  the  place,  and  were  assigned  a  room  in  common  with  two 


72  RICHARD   HURD1S. 

other  persons.  To  this  arrangement  we  objected  in  vain.  The 
chambers  were  too  few  and  the  crowd  too  great  tc  permit  a  tav 
ern-keeper  to  tolerate  any  unnecessary  fastidiousness  on  the  part 
of  his  guests. 

Here  let  me  pause  in  the  narrative  of  my  own  progress,  and 
retrace  for  a  brief  period  my  steps.  Let  me  unfold  the  do 
ings  of  others,  necessarily  connected  with  my  own,  which  are 
proper  to  be  made  known  to  the  reader  in  this  place,  though 
only  known  to  me  long  after  their  occurrence.  The  parting 
with  my  brother  will  be  remembered.  It  will  be  recollected, 
that,  when  Mary  Easterby  came  between  us  after  I  had  dragged 
him  from  his  horse,  and  prevented  strife,  and  possibly  blood 
shed,  that  he  left  us  together,  and  proceeded  to  the  habitation 
of  her  parents.  There,  with  a  heart  full  of  bitterness  toward 
me,  and  a  mind  crowded  with  conflicting  and  angry  emotions, 
he  yet  contrived  effectually  to  conceal  from  observation  both 
the  struggle  and  the  bitterness.  His  words  were  free,  easy, 
well  arranged,  and  good-natured,  as  usual,  to  all  around ;  and, 
when  Mary  Easterby  returned  to  the  cottage  after  I  had  left 
her,  she  started  with  surprise  to  see  how  effectually  he  could 
hide  the  traces  of  that  fierce  and  unnatural  strife  in  which,  but 
a  little  while  before,  he  had  been  so  earnestly  engaged.  The 
unlooked-for  ease  with  which  this  was  done,  effectually  startled 
and  pained  her.  By  what  mastery  of  his  emotions  had  this 
been  done,  and  what  was  the  nature  of  that  spirit  which  could 
so  hermetically  seal  its  anger,  its  hate,  its  human  and  perhapp 
holiest  passions  ?  She  saw  him  in  a  new  light.  Heretofore  she 
had  regarded  him  but  in  one  aspect  —  as  a  man  more  solicitous 
of  his  ease  than  of  his  reputation,  good-natured  in  the  extreme, 
too  slothful  tc  be  irritable,  too  fond  of  repose  and  good  living 
to  harbor  secret  hostilities.  If  her  opinion  on  this  subject  did 
not  suffer  change,  it  at  least  called  for  prompt  revision  and  re- 
Bxamination  under  the  new  light  in  which  it  appeared,  and 
ivhich  now  served  only  to  dazzle  and  confound  her.  The  won 
der  increased  as  the  evening  advanced.  He  was  even  humor 
ous  and  witty  in  his  easy  volubility  ;  and,  but  for  the  annoyance 
j^hich  she  naturally  felt  at  what  seemed  to  her  hw  unnatural 
low  of  spirits,  she  would  have  been  constrained  to  confess  tU*t 
ever  before  had  he  seemed  so  positively  agreeable.  All  h'a 


GOOD   AND   EVIL  SPIRITS.  73 

reeoiiroes  of  reading  and  observation  were  brought  into  requi 
sition,  and  he  placed  them  before  the  company  with  so  much 
order,  clearness,  and  facility,  that  she  was  disposed  to  give  him 
credit  for  much  more  capacity  of  nature  and  acquisition  than 
she  had  ever  esteemed  him  to  possess  before.  He  was  acting  a 
part,  and,  had  she  not  been  troubled  with  misgivings  to  this 
effect,  he  might  have  acted  it  successfully.  But  he  overshot  his 
mark.  He  had  not  the  art,  the  result  only  of  frequeL*  practice, 
to  conceal  the  art  which  ne  employed.  His  purpose  was  to 
seem  amiable  —  to  be  above  the  passions  which  governed  me  — 
and  to  possess  the  forbearance  which  could  forgive  them,  even 
where  he  himself  had  been  in  a  measure  their  victim.  He  erred 
in  seeming,  not  only  above  their  control,  but  free  from  their  an 
noyance.  Had  he  been  slightly  grave  during  the  evening,  had 
he  seemed  to  strive  at  cheerfulness,  and  at  a  forgetfulness  of 
that  which  could  not  but  be  unpleasant  to  any  brother,  he  had 
been  far  more  successful  with  Mary  Easterby.  Her  natural 
good  sense  revolted  at  the  perfect  mastery  which  he  possessed 
over  his  emotions.  Such  a  man  might  well  become  an  lago, 
having  a  power,  such  as  he  certainly  exhibited,  "  to  smile  and 
emile,  and  be,"  if  not  a  villain,  one  at  least  wholly  insensible  to 
those  proper  sentiments  and  sorrows  which  belonged  to  his  sit 
uation  under  existing  circumstances.  Little  did  my  brothei 
conjecture  the  thoughts  passing  through  her  mind  as  he  thus 
played  his  part.  What  would  I  have  given  to  know  them  ! 
how  many  pangs,  doubts,  and  sorrows,  would  have  been  spared 
me!  what  time  had  I  not  saved  —  what  affections  had  I  not 
spared  and  sheltered !  But  this  is  idle. 

John  Hurdis  lingered  late  that  night  for  an  opportunity  which 
was  at  length  given  him.  Mary  and  himself  were  left  alone  to 
gether  ;  and  he  proceeded  to  do  that  which,  with  the  precipitato 
apprehensions  of  a  jealous  lover,  I  had  long  befo:e  supposed  to 
have  been  over.  Either  emboldened  by  the  belief  that  my  rash 
conduct  had  sufficiently  offended  the  maiden,  and  that  he  had 
properly  prepared  the  way  for  his  declaration — or,  possibly , 
somewhat  anxious  lest,  in  my  parting  interview,  I  had  poured 
out  desperately  those  emotions  which  I  had  with  undue  timidity 
hopelessly  and  long  lockorl  n^.  p,,,i  rv> \iuus  to  know  the  result 
he  resolved  to  close  a  pursuit  which  lie  had  hitherto  conducted 


74  BICtt/JlD   HURDI8. 

with  no  less  art  than  perseverance.  John  Hurdis  was  a  van 
man,  and  confident  ">f  his  position ;  and  yet  he  did  not  approach 
that  calm  and  high-  minded  girl  without  some  trepidation.  His 
first  overture  began  with  a  reference  t^  the  conflict  which  she 
had  so  happily  interrupted :  — 

"Mary,  you  have  this  day  witnessed  that  which  I  should 
willingly  have  kept  for  ever  from  your  knowledge.  You  havo 
seen  the  strife  of  brother  with  brother ;  you  have  beheld  a  vio 
lence  shocking  to  humanity,  and,  if  not  ending  like  that  of  the 
first  murderer,  one  which,  but  for  your  timely  coming,  might 
have  had,  for  one  or  boUi  of  us,  a  no  less  fa'al  termination.  T 
hope,  Mary,  you  do  me  the  justice  to  believe  thai  I  was  not  to 
blame  in  this  quarrel." 

He  drew  his  chair  nigher  to  hers,  as  he  thus  spoke,  and 
waited  for  her  answer  vith  no  little  solicitude.  She  hesitated. 
How  could  she  else  tha^  hesitate,  when  an  assenting  answei 
sanctioned  the  address,  the  sincerity  of  which  she  seriously 
questioned  ? 

"  I  know  not  what  to  say,  Mr.  Hurdis,"  was  her  reply.  "  I 
saw  not  enough  of  the  strife  of  which  you  speak  to  pass  judg 
ment  upon  it.  I  will  not  pretend  to  say  who  began  it ;  I  would 
father  not  speak  on  the  subject  at  all." 

"Yet  he — Richard  Hurdis  —  he  spoke  of  it  to  you?"  he  re 
plied  suspiciously. 

"  No,  I  spoke  of  it  to  him,  rather,"  was  the  fearless  answer. 
•'  In  the  first  moment  of  my  surprise  and  terror,  Mr.  Hurdis,  I 
spoke  to  Richard — to  your  brother — about  his  rashness;  and 
yet,  though  I  spoke,  I  know  not  truly  what  I  said.  I  was  anx 
ious —  I  was  alarmed." 

"  Yet  you  know  that  it  was  his  rashness,  Mary,  th**  provoked 
the  affair,"  he  said  quickly. 

"  I  know  that  Richard  is  rash,  constitutionally  rasn,  »V,hn," 
she  replied  gravely.  "  Yet  I  will  not  pretend  to  say,  nor  Am  I 
willing  to  think,  that  the  provocation  came  entirely  from  him." 

"  But  you  saw  his  violence  only,  Mary." 

"  Yes,  that  is  tine ;  but  did  his  violence  come  of  itself,  John  t 
Said  you  nothing?  did  you  nothing  to  provoke  him  to  that  vir 
lence  ?  was  there  no  vexing  word  ?  was  there  no  cause  of  strifr 
ell  known  before,  between  you  ]    I  am  sure  that  there 


GOOD   AND    EVIL  SPIRITS.  75 

have  »een,  John,  and  I  leave  it  to  youi  candoi  to  say  if  thei* 
were  not  I  have  known  Richard  long — we  were  children  to 
gether —  and  I  can  not  think  thai  hi  sheer  wantonness,  and 
without  provocation,  he  could  do  what  I  this  day  beheld." 

A  faint  yet  bitter  smile  passed  over  his  lips  aj  he  replied : — 

"And  do  you  think,  Mary  —  is  it  possible  that  you,  a  lady, 
one  brought  up  to  regard  violence  with  terror,  and  brutality 
with  disgust  —  is  it  possible  that  you  can  justify  a  resort  to 
blr  vvs  for  a  provocation  given  in  words  ?" 

The  cheek  of  the  maiden  crimsoned  beneafli  the  tacit  re 
proach  ;  but  she  replied  without  shame  : — 

"  God  forbicl !  I  do  XL  ;  blows  are  brutal,  and  violence  de 
grading  to  humanity  <  my  eyes  !  But  though  I  find  no  sane 
lion  for  the  error  ol  itichard,  I  am  not  so  sure  that  you  have 
your  justification  in  his  violence  for  evei^'  provocation  of  which 
you  may  have  been  guilty.  Your  brother  is  full  of  impuls0, 
quick,  and  irritable.  You  know  his  nature  well.  Did  you 
scruple  to  offend  it?  Did  you  not  offend  it?  I  ask  you  in 
honor,  John  Hurdis,  since  you  have  invited  me  to  speak,  was 
there  not  some  previous  cause  of  strife  between  you  which  pro 
voked,  if  it  did  not  justify,  your  brother  in  his  violence  ?" 

"It  may  be  —  nay,  there  was,  Mary!  I  confers  it.  And 
would  you  know  the  cause,  Mary  ?  Nay,  you  must ;  it  is  of 
that  I  would  speak !  Will  you  hear  me  ?" 

"Freely,  John!"  was  the  ready  and  more  indulgent  reply. 
"If  the  cause  be  known,  the  remedy  can  not  be  far  off,  John, 
if  we  have  the  will  to  apply  it." 

He  smiled  at  what  he  considered  the  aptness  of  the  reply. 
He  drew  his  chair  still  nigher  to  her  own ;  and  his  voice  fell 
and  trembled  as  he  spoke 

"  You  are  the  cause,  Mary  !" 

"I  —  I  the  cause  !"  She  paused  and  looked  at  him  with  un 
reserved  astonishment. 

"  Yes,  you,  and  you  only  Mary  !  Richard  Hurdis  hates  me, 
simply  because  I  love  you !  Not  that  he  loves  you  himself, 
Mary!"  he  spoke  quickly  —  "no,  he  would  control  you  for  his 
own  pride!  he  would  rule  you  &ri  me,  and  everything  alike! 
But  that  he  shall  not!  No,  Mary!  hear  me — I  have  been 
•low  to  spfiak,  as  I  was  fearful  to  offend !  I  would  not  be  pro- 


76  RICHAHD  HURDIS. 

cipitate.  I  sought  to  win  your  regard  before  I  ventured  to  proffer 
mine.  The  affair  this  day  prompts  me  to  speak  sooner  than  I 
might  have  done.  Hear  me,  then,  Mary;  I  love  you!  I  proffer 
you  my  heart,  my  life!  I  will  live  for  you!  I  implore  you,  then  — 
be  mine!" 

The  head  of  Mary  Easterby  sank  as  she  heard  this  language. 
Her  cheek  assumed  a  deeper  flush;  there  was  a  sorrowful  expres 
sion  in  her  eye  which  did  net  encourage  the  pleader;  and  when 
she  spoke,  which,  after  a  little  pause,  she  did,  it  annoyed 
him  to  perceive  that  she  was  composed  and  dignified  in  hex 
manner,  and  that  all  trace  of  emotion  had  departed  from  hei 
voice. 

"I  thank  you,  John  —  I  thank  you  for  your  favorable  opin 
ion;  but  I  am  not  satisfied  that  I  should  be  the  occasion  of 
strife  between  you  and  your  brother.  You  tell  me  that  I  am — 
that  he  is  unwilling  that  you  should  love  me,  or  that  I  should 
love  you  in  return!" 

"It  is — it  is  that,  Mary!"  he  exclaimed  hastily,  inten-upting 
her  speech,  which  was  uttered  composedly,  and  even  slow. 

"I  am  sorry  that  it  is  —  sorry  that  you  think  so,  John;  for 
I  am  sure  you  must  be  mistaken." 

"  Mistaken! "  he  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  John,  mistaken!  You  are — you  must  be,  mistaken!  It 
can  not  be  as  you  imagine.  Supposing  that  Richard  was  unwilling 
that  you  should  regard  me  with  favor,  and  that  I  should  respond 
favorably  to  j'our  regard  —  for  which  I  see  no  reason — " 

He  interrupted  her  again,  and  with  some  show  of  impatience. 
'There  is  reason  —  reason  enough  —  though  you  may  not  see 
it!  I  tell  you  that  he  would  rule  us  both!  His  nature  is  des 
potical.  A  younger  brother,  he  has  yet  the  management  of 
everything  at  home;  and,  having  been  brought  up  as  your  com 
panion  from  childhood,  he  claims  to  have  some  right  to  manage 
your  concerns  also.  He  would  rule  in  all  things,  and  over 
everybody,  and  would  not  have  me  love  you,  Mary,  or  you  me, 
for  that  very  reason.  Not  that  he  loves  you  himself,  Mary; 
no,  no!  —  that  might  alter  the  case,  were  it  so  —  but  I  am  sure, 
I  know,  that  he  loves  another!  It  is  a  sort  of  dog-in-the-man 
ger  spirit  that  possesses  him,  and  which  brought  about  our  quar 
rel." 


GOOD   AND    EVIL  SPIRITS.  77 

Here  was  a  batch  of  lies;  and  yet  there  was  truth  in  much  that 
he  said.  Without  doubt,  I  had  much  of  that  despotic  nature  which 
he  ascribed  to  me,  and  which,  more  or  less,  affected  my  deportment 
in  all  my  associations;  but  the  whole  tissue  of  his  speech  was 
woven  in  falsehood,  and  one  difficulty  in  which  he  had  involved 
himself  by  a  previous  remark  led  even  to  a  greater  number  yet. 
He  had  ascribed  to  her  the  occasion  of  our  quarrel,  without 
reflectiDg  that  he  had  already  persuaded  her  that  my  regards  were 
given  to  another.  It  was  difficult  now  for  him  to  account  for  my 
hostility  to  his  success  with  Mary,  unless  by  supposing  in  me  a 
nature  unnaturally  froward  and  contradictory.  And  such  a  nature, 
whatever  were  my  other  faults,  could  not  fairly  be  laid  to  my 
charge.  To  have  suffered  Mary  to  suppose  that  I  really  loved 
her,  was  no  part  of  his  subtle  policy.  For  months  it  had 
been  his  grateful  labor  to  impress  upon  her  mind  a  different 
belief. 

After  hearing  him  patiently  through  his  hurried  tirade,  Mary 
resumed : 

"I  think  you  do  your  brother  much  injustice,  John,  when  you 
ascribe  to  him  a  temper  so  unreasonable.  I  have  known  him  for 
many  years,  and,  while  I  have  often  found  him  jealous  and  passion 
ate,  I  must  defend  him  from  any  charge  of  mere  wilful  and  cold  per 
versity.  He  is  too  irritable,  too  quick  and  impetuous,  for  such  a 
temper.  He  docs  not  sufficiently  deliberate  to  be  perverse;  and  as 
for  the  base  malignity  of  desiring  to  keep  one,  and  that  one  a  brother, 
from  the  possession  of  that  which  he  did  not  himself  desire  to  pos 
sess,  1  can  not  think  it.  No,  John,  that  can  not  be  the  true  reason, 
I  have  no  doubt  that  you  think  so,  but  as  little  is  my  doubt  that  you 
think  unjustly." 

"I  know  no  other  reason,  Mary,"  was  the  somewhat  cold 
answer. 

"Nay,  John,  I  speak  not  so  much  of  the  general  cause  of  the 
difference  between  you,  as  of  the  particular  provocation  of  the 
strife  to-day.  Let  it  be  as  you  say,  that  Richard  is  thus  per 
verse  with  little  or  no  reason,  yet  it  could  not  be  that  without 
immediate  and  rude  cause  of  anger  he  should  rush  upon  you  in 
the  high  road  and  assault  you  with  blows.  Such  violence  is 
that  of  the  robber  who  seeks  for  money,  or  the  blood-thirsty 
assassin  who  would  revenge,  bv  sudden  blow,  the  wrong  for  which 


78  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

he  dared  not  crave  open  and  manly  atonement.  Now,  I  know 
that  Richard  is  no  robber ;  and  we  both  know  him  too  well  to 
think  that  he  would  assassinate,  without  warning,  the  enemy 
whom  he  had  not  the  courage  to  fight.  Cowardice  is  not  his 
character  any  more  than  dishonesty ;  and  yet  it  were  base  cow 
ardice  if  he  assaulted  you  this  day  without  due  warning." 

The  cool,  deliberate  survey  which  Mary  Easterby  took  of  the 
subject,  utterly  confounded  her  companion.  He  was  unprepared 
for  this  form  of  the  discussion.  To  dwell  longer  upon  it  was 
not  his  policy ;  yet,  to  turn  from  it  in  anger  and  impatience  was 
to  prejudice  his  own  cause  and  temper,  in  the  estimation  of  one 
so  considerate  and  acute  as  Mary  had  shown  herself  to  be. 
Passing  his  hand  over  his  face,  he  rose  from  his  seat,  paced  the 
room  slowly  twice  or  thrice,  and  then  returned  to  his  place  with 
a  countenance  once  more  calm  and  unruffled,  and  with  a  smile 
upon  his  lips  as  gently  wii>.iing  as  if  they  had  never  worn  any 
other  expression.  The  readiness  of  this  transition  was  again 
unfavorable  to  his  object.  Mary  Easterby  was  a  woman  of 
earnest  character — not  liable  to  hasty  changes  of  mood  her 
self,  and  still  less  capable  of  those  sudden  turns  of  look  and 
manner  which  denote  strong  transitions  of  it.  She  looked  dis 
trustfully  upon  them  accordingly,  when  they  were  visible  in 
others. 

"You  are  right,  Mary!"  said  the  tempter,  approaching  her, 
and  speaking  in  tones  in  which  an  amiable  and  self  accusing 
spirit  seemed  to  mingle  with  one  of  wooing  solicitation.  "  You 
are  right,  Mary ;  there  was  an  immediate  provocation  of  which 
I  had  not  spoken,  and  which  I  remember  occasioned  Richard's 
violence.  He  spoke  to  me  in  a  manner  which  I  thought  in 
solently  free,  and  I  replied  to  him  in  sarcastic  language.  He 
retorted  in  terms  which  led  me  to  utter  a  threat  which  it  did  not 
become  me  to  uttei,  and  which,  I  doubt  not,  was  quite  too  pro 
voking  for  him  to  bear  with  composure.  Thence  came  his 
violence.  You  were  right,  I  think,  in  supposing  his  violence 
without  design.  I  do  not  think  it  myself;  and,  though,  as  I 
have  said,  I  regard  Richard's  conduct  toward  me  as  ungracious 
and  inexcusable,  I  am  yet  but  too  conscious  of  unkind  feelings 
;oward  him  to  desire  to  prolong  this  conversation.  There  is 
\nother  topic,  Mary,  which  is  far  more  grateful  to  me^ 


GOOD   AND  EYIL  BPIBIT8.  79 

you  suffer  me  to  speak  on  that  ?  You  have  heard  my  declara 
tion.  I  love  you,  Mary  !  I  have  long  loved  you !  I  feel  that 
I  can  not  cease  to  love,  and  can  not  be  happy  without  you ! 
Turn  not  from  me,  Mary  !  hear  me,  I  pray  you  !  be  indulgent, 
and  hear  me !" 

"  I  should  not  do  justice  to  your  good  regards,  John,  nor  to 
our  long  intimacy,  if  I  desired  to  hear  you  farther  on  this  sub 
ject  !  Forgive  me — leave  me  now — let  me  retire  !" 

She  arose  as  if  to  depart.  He  caught  her  hand  and  led  her 
back  to  the  seat  from  which  she  had  arisen.  It  was  now  that 
he  trembled — trembled  more  than  ever,  as  he  beheld  her  so 
little  moved. 

"  You  are  cold,  Mary  !  you  dislike — you  hate  me  !"  he  stam 
mered  forth,  almost  convulsively. 

"  No,  John,  you  are  wrong.  I  neither  hate  nor  dislike  you ; 
and  you  know  it.  On  the  contrary,  I  have  much  respect  for 
you,  as  well  on  your  own  account  as  on  that  of  your  family." 

"  Family  !  respect !  Oh,  Mary,  choose  some  other  words ! 
Can  not  you  hear  me  speak  of  warmer  feelings  —  closer  ties? 
Will  you  not  heed  me  when  I  say  that  I  love?  —  when  I  praj 
you  to  accept  —  to  love  me  in  return?" 

"  It  must  not  be,  John  !  To  love  you  as  a  husband  should  be 
loved  —  as  a  wife  should  love — wholly,  singly,  exclusively,  so 
that  one  should  leave  father,  mother,  and  all  other  ties  only  for 
that  one  —  I  cannot!  I  should  speak  a  base  untruth,  John, 
were  I  to  say  so !  It  gives  me  pain  to  tell  you  this,  sir !  it 
gives  pain  —  but  better  that  both  of  us  should  suffer  the  present 
and  momentary  anguish  which  comes  from  defrauded  expecta 
tions,  than  risk  the  permanent  sorrow  of  a  long  life,  passed  in 
the  exercise  of  falsehood!  I  am  grateful  for  your  love,  John! 
for  the  favor  with  which  you  distinguish  me ;  but  I  can  not  give 
you  mine.  I  can  not  reply  as  you  would  wish  me." 

"Mary,  you  love  another!" 

"  I  know  not,  John  !  I  would  not  know  !  I  pray  that  you 
would  not  strive  to  force  the  reflection  upon  me !" 

"  You  mistake  Richard  Hurdis,  if  you  think  that  he  loves  you, 
Mary.  He  does  not ;  you  can  have  no  hope  of  him." 

The  coarse,  base  speech  of  tke  selfish  man  was  well  answered 
fcy  the  calm  and  quiet  tone  of  the  maiden. 


80  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

44  And  if  I  had  b  jpes  of  him,  or  of  any  man,  John  Hurdis,  thej 
should  be  entombed  in  the  bosom,  where  they  had  their  birth, 
before  my  lips  or  looks  should  declare  them  to  other  bosoms  than 
my  own.  I  have  no  hopes,  «uch  as  you  speak  of;  and,  so  tru 
ly  as  I  stand  before  you,  I  tell  you  that  I  know  not,  that  I  have 
in  my  heart  a  solitary  sentiment  with  reference  to  your  brother, 
which,  according:  to  my  present  thought,  I  would  not  you  should 
hear.  That  I  have  always  regarded  him  with  favor,  is  true ; 
that  I  deem  him  to  be  possessed  of  some  very  noble  qualities, 
is  no  less  true.  More ;  I  tell  you,  it  is  with  pain,  anxious  and 
deep  pain,  that  I  have  beheld  his  coldness,  when  we  have  met 
of  late,  and  his  estrangement  from  me,  for  so  long  a  period.  I 
would  give  much  to  know  why  it  is.  I  would  do  much  that  it 
should  be  otherwise." 

"  And  yet  you  know  not,  Mary,  that  you  love  him  V9 

"  I  know  not,  John ;  and  if  the  knowledge  may  be  now  ob 
tained,  I  would  infinitely  prefer  not  to  know.  It  would  avail 
me  nothing,  and  might  —  might  become  known  to  him." 

There  is  no  need  to  dwell  longer  upon  this  interview,  though 
the  vexing  spirit  of  my  brother,  clothing  what  he  spoke  still  in 
the  language  of  dissimulation,  protracted  it  for  some  time  longer, 
in  vain  assaults  upon  her  firmness,  and,  failing  in  that,  in  mean 
sarcasms,  which  were  doubly  mean  as  they  were  disguised  alter 
nately  in  the  language  of  humiliation  and  of  love.  When  he 
left  her,  she  hurried  to  her  chamber,  utterly  exhausted  with  a 
struggle  in  which  all  the  strength  of  her  mind  had  been  em 
ployed  in  the  double  duty  of  contending  with  his  and  of  keep 
ing  her  own  feelings,  upon  which  it  was  his  purpose  to  play, 
in  quiet  and  subjection.  Her  tears  came  t  >  her  relief,  when 
ehc  fourd  herself  alone,  but  they  could  not  banish  from  her 
mind  a  new  consciousness,  which,  from  the  moment  when  she 
parted  with  my  brother,  kept  forcing  itself  upon  her.  "  Did 
she,  in  truth,  love  Richard  Hurdis  1"  was  her  question  to  her 
self.  How  gladly,  that  moment  would  I  have  listened  to  hei 
answer ! 


GUILTY   PRACTICl. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

GUILTY    PRACTICE. 

Macbeth.  Know 

That  it  was  he,  in  the  times  past,  which  held  you 
So  under  fortune     which,  you  thought,  had  been 
Our  innocent  self-  this  I  made  good  to  you 
In  our  last  conference  ;  passed  iu  probation  with  you 
How  you  were  borne  in  hand ;  how  crossed. 
****** 

Now,  if  you  have  a  station  in  the  file, 
And  not  in  the  worst  rank  of  manhood,  say  it; 
And  I  will  put  that  business  in  your  bosoms, 
Whose  execution  takes  your  enemy  off; 
Grapples  you  to  the  heart  and  love  of  us, 
Who  wear  our  health  but  sickly  in  his  life, 
Which  in  his  death  were  perfect 
Murderer.  I  am  one,  my  liege, 
Whom  the  vile  blows  and  buffets  of  the  world 
Have  so  incensed,  that  I  am  reckless  what 
I  do  to  spite  the  world. — SHAKSPERK. 

THE  interview  had  barely  terminated  when  my  brother  left 
the  habitation  of  the  maiden.  He  had  preserved  his  com 
posure,  at  least  he  had  concealed  the  passion  which  his  disap 
pointment  had  aroused  within  him,  until  fairly  out  of  sight.  It 
was  then  that  he  gave  vent  to  feelings  which  I  had  not  sup 
posed  him  to  possess.  Base  I  thought  him,  envious  it  may  be ; 
but  of  malignity  and  viperous  hate,  I  had  never  once  suspected 
him.  He  had  always  seemed  to  me,  as  he  seemed  to  others,  too 
fat  for  bitterness,  too  fond  of  ease  and  quiet  to  suffer  any  dis 
appointment  to  disturb  him  greatly.  We  were  all  mistaken. 
When  he  reached  the  cover  of  the  woods  he  raved  like  a  mad 
man.  The  fit  of  fury  did  not  last  very  long,  it  is  true ;  but 
while  it  lasted,  it  was  terrible,  and  in  the  end  exhausting.  He 
threw  himself  from  his  hore«,  and,  casting  the  bridln  ovor  r 


e  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

shrub,  flung  imself  indifferently  upon  the  grass,  and  gave  way 
to  the  bitterest  meditations.  He  had  toiled  long,  without  cessa 
tion,  and  his  toils  had  all  been  taken  in  vain.  It  did  not  offer 
any  qualification  to  his  mortified  feelings  to  reflect  that  he  had 
also  toiled  dishonorably. 

But  on  a  sudden  he  rose,  and  resumed  his  seat  in  the  saddle. 
His  meditations  had  taken  a  new  course.  His  hopes  had  r&- 
vived ;  and  he  now  planned  projects,  the  character  of  which, 
even  worse  than  those  already  known  to  the  reader,  will  soo^a 
be  developed.  He  put  spurs  to  his  steed,  and  rode  furiously 
through  the  wood.  It  was  deep,  dark  and  tangled;  but  he 
knew  the  country,  with  which,  it  was  fortunate  for  him,  hia 
horse  was  also  familiar.  Through  by-paths  which  were  made 
by  the  cattle,  or  by  scouting  negroes,  he  hurried  through  the 
forest,  and  in  a  couple  of  hours'  space,  emerged  from  it  into  a 
more  beaten  path.  A  ride  of  an  hour  more  carried  him  beyond 
the  plantation  of  my  father,  which  the  circuit  through  the  forest 
had  enabled  him  to  avoid,  and  in  the  immediate  neighborhood 
of  a  miserable  cabin  that  stood  in  a  secluded  and  wild  spot,  and 
was  seen  with  difficulty  through  the  crowding  darkness.  A 
faint  light  shone  through  the  irregular  logs  of  which  it  was 
built,  and  served,  while  indicating  the  dwelling,  to  convey  to 
the  observer  air  increased  idea  of  its  cheerlessness. 

It  was  before  this  habitation,  if  such  it  might  be  called,  that 
John  Hurdis  drew  up  his  horse.  He  alighted,  and,  having  first 
led  the  animal  into  shadow  behind  the  house,  he  returned  to  the 
door  in  front,  and  tapping,  obtained  immediate  entrance.  The 
room  into  which  he  was  admitted  was  a  small  one,  and  so  filled 
with  smoke  that  objects  were  scarce  discernible.  Some  light 
wood  thrown  into  the  fire  on  his  entrance  served  to  illumine,  if 
not  to  disperse  it,  and  John  spoke  to  the  inmates  with  a  degree 
of  familiarity  which  showed  him  to  have  been  an  old  acquaint 
ance.  They  were  old  acquaintance,  not  only  of  him  but  of 
myself.  The  man  was  a  villain  whom  I  had  caught  stealing 
corn  from  our  fields,  and  whom,  but  for  John,  I  should  have 
punished  accordingly.  I  little  knew  what  was  the  true  motiv»* 
which  prompted  his  interference,  a. id  gave  him  credit  for  * 
degree  of  humanity  than  %v^s  consistent  either  with 
•  -«i  character.  He  was  a  burly  ruffian,  a  black 


GUILTY   PRACTICE.  88 

.  icd  black-faced  fellow,  rarely  clean,  seldom  visible  by 
day,  a  sullen,  sour,  bad  minded  wretch,  who  had  no  mode  of 
livp'inood  of  which  the  neighbors  knew  except  by  inveigling 
'•he  negroes  into  thefts  of  property  which,  in  his  wanderings, 
he  disposed  of.  He  was  a  constant  wanderer  to  tbe  towns 
around,  and  it  was  said,  sometimes  extended  his  rambles  to 
others  out  of  the  state.  His  rifle  and  a  mangy  cur  that  slept  in 
the  fireplace,  and  like  his  master  was  never  visible  by  day, 
were  his  sole  companions  when  abroad.  At  home  he  had  a 
wife  and  one  child.  The  wife,  like  himself,  seemed  sour  and 
dissatisfied.  Her  looks,  when  not  vacant,  were  dark  and  threat 
ening.  She  spoke  little  but  rarely  idly,  and  however  much  her 
outward  deportment  might  resemble  that  of  her  husband,  it 
must  be  said  in  her  favor,  that  her  nature  was  decidedly  gentler, 
and  her  character  as  far  superior  as  it  well  could  be,  living  in 
such  contact,  and  having  no  sympathies  save  those  which  she 
found  in  her  child  and  husband.  Perhaps,  too,  her  mind  was 
something  stronger,  as  it  was  more  direct  and  loss  flexible,  than 
his.  She  was  a  woman  of  deliberate  and  composed  manner, 
rarely  passionate,  and  careful  to  accommodate  her  conduct  and 
appearance  to  the  well-known  humility  of  condition  in  which 
she  lived.  In  this  lay  her  wisdom.  The  people  around  com 
miser  at  ed  her  as  she  was  neither  presumptuous  nor  offensive, 
and  tolerated  many  offences  in  him,  in  consideration  of  herself 
and  child,  which  would  have  brought  any  other  person  to  the 
whipping  post.  The  child,  an  unhappy  creature,  a  girl  of  fif 
teen,  was  an  idiot-born.  She  was  pretty,  very  pretty,  and 
sometimes,  when  a  sudden  spark  of  intelligence  lighted  up  her 
eye,  she  seemed  really  beautiful.  But  the  mind  was  utterly 
lacking.  The  temple  was  graceful,  erect,  and  inviting,  but  the 
god  had  never  taken  possession  of  his  shrine. 

Enough  !  It  was  to  ttis  unpromising  family  and  mean  abode 
that  John  Hurdis  came  late  at  night.  The  inmates  were  watch 
ful  and  the  man  ready  to  answer  to  the  summons.  The  woman, 
too,  was  a  watcher,  probably  after  an  accustomed  habit,  but  the 
idiot  girl  slept  on  a  pallet  in  one  corner  of  the  apartment. 
When  John  Hurdis  entered,  she  raised  her  head,  and  regarded 
him  with  a  show  of  merest  which  he  did  net  appear  to  *ee 


84  RICHARD   HURDI8, 

He  iroked  with  some  curiosity  at  her  couch,  however ;  but  for  an 
instant  only  His  regards  that  night  were  for  her  father  only. 

"Ah,  Pickett,"  said  he  with"  an  air  of  jocularity  on  entering, 
"how  goes  it?  How  does  the  world  use  you  now-a-days? 
How  d'ye  do,  Mrs.  Pickett  ?  And  Jane — how  is  Jane  ?" 

"  I'm  well,  sir,  I'm  quite  well,  Mr.  John,"  was  the  quick 
i  espouse  of  the  poor  innocent  in  the  corner,  whom  everybody 
thought  asleep.  The  answers  of  Pickett  and  his  wife  were  not 
so  prompt.  That  of  the  former  was  somewhat  surly,  that  of 
the  wife  slow.  A  brief  formal  dialogue  passed  between  the 
party,  in  which  John  Hurdis  spoke  with  infinite  good  humor. 
He  did  not  seem  to  heed  the  coldness  of  his  host  and  hostess; 
and  all  traces  of  his  late  anger  had  passed  effectually  from  his 
vice  and  visage.  His  only  concern  seemed  now  to  conciliate 
those  whom  he  sought,  and  it  does  not  take  long  for  the  rich 
man  to  make  the  poor  and  the  inferior  unbend.  In  a  little  time 
John  Hurdis  had  the  satisfaction  to  see  the  hostess  smile,  and 
to  hear  a  broken  and  surly  chuckle  of  returning  good-nature 
from  the  lips  of  Pickett.  The  preliminary  difficulty  was  over ; 
and  making  a  sign  to  Pickett,  while  his  wife's  back  was  turned, 
the  guest  led  the  Avay  to  the  door  bidding  the  latter  good-night. 
The  idiot  girl  half  raised  herself  in  the  bed  and  answered  for 
the  mother. 

"  Good-night,  Mr.  John,  good-night,  Mr.  John." 

Pickett  followed  Hurdis  to  the  door,  and  the  two  went  forth 
together. 

They  soon  buried  themselves  in  the  thick  cover  of  the  neigh 
boring  wood,  when  John  Hurdis,  who  had  led  the  way,  turned 
and  confronted  his  companion. 

"  Well,  'squire,"  said  Pickett  with  abrupt  familiarity,  "  I  see 
you  have  work  for  me.  What's  the  mischief  to-night  1" 

"  You  are  right.  I  have  work  for  you,  and  mischief.  Will 
you  do  it?" 

"If  it  suits  me.  You  know  I'm  not  very  nice.  Let's  hear 
the  kind  of  work,  and  then  the  pay  that  I'm  to  get  for  doing  it, 
'fore  I  answer." 

"Richard  llurdis  goes  for  the  'Nation'  to-morrow,"  said 
John  in  a  lower  tone  of  voice. 

"  Well,  ^ou're  glad  to  get  rid  of  him,  I  suppose.     He'g  out 


GUILTY   PHAOTICR.  85 

of    your   way   now.       I  wish  I  could  be  contain  that  be  wai 
•tft  of  mine." 

"  You  can  make  it  certain." 

"  How  1" 

"  'Tis  that  I  came  about.  He  goes  to  the  '  Nation,*  on  rfome 
wild  goose  char.e ;  not  tliat  ho,  wishes  to  go,  but  because  h*» 
thinks  that  Mary  Enstcrby  is  fond  of  me." 

"So;  the  thing  works,  does  it?" 

"  Ay,  but  does  not  work  for  me,  though  it  may  work  against 
him.  I  have  succeeded  in  making  them  misunderstand  eacL 
other  but  I  have  not  yet  been  successful  in  convincing  her  tb^ 
I  am  the  only  proper  person  for  her.  You  know  my  feeling  on 
that  subject,  it  is  enough  that  she  declines  my  ofi'cr." 

"  Well,  what  then  are  you. to  do?" 

"  That  troubles  me.  She  declines  me  simply  because  she 
prefers  him." 

41  But  you  say  she  has  no  hope  of  him.  She  thinks  he  loves 
another." 

"Yes!  But  that  does  not  altogether  make  her  hopeless 
Hope  is  a  tiling  not  killed  so  easily ;  and  when  wom^n  love. 
they  cling  to  their  object  even  when  they  behold  it  in  the  armf 
of  another.  The  love  lives,  in  spite  of  them,  though,  in  most 
cases,  they  have  the  cunning  to  conceal  it.  Mary  KasU-rby 
would  not  give  up  the  hope  of  having  Richard  Hurdis,  so  long 
as  she  could  lay  eyes  on  him,  and  they  are  both  single. " 

"Perhaps  you're  right;  and  yet,  if  llichard  drives  for  the 
Nation'  she'll  lose  sight  of  him,  and  then " 

""Will  he  not  return  ?"  replied  the  other  sternly  and  gloomily 
"Who  shall  keep  him  away?  The  discontent  that  drives  him 
now  will  bring  him  back.  He  goes  because  he  believes  that 
she  is  engaged  to  me.  He  will  come  back  because  he  doubts 
it.  He  will  not  sleep  until  he,  finds  out  our  deception.  They 
will  have  an  explanation  —  had  he  not  been  blinded  by  his  own 
passions  he  would  have  found  it  out  before  —  and  then  all  my 
labors  will  have  been  in  vain.  It  will  be  my  turn  to  go  among 
the  Choctaws. 

"  AVell  —  but,  'squire,  while  he's  off  and  out  of  sight,  can't 
you  get  her  to  marry  you  and  have  done  with  it  ?"  said  Pickett 

"Net  easily;  and  if  I  could,  what  would  it  avail?     Lovinjr 


86  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

him  at>  she  does,  I  should  but  marry  her  for  him.  His  hand 
would  bo  in  my  dish,  and  I  should  but  fence  in  a  crop  for  his 
benefit  No,  no,  that  would  not  do  either.  I  tell  you,  where 
these  v  omen  once  love  a  man,  to  see  him,  to  have  opportunity 
with  him,  is  fatal,  though  they  be  lawfully  bound  to  another.  ] 
hhould  not  si  joo  secure  in  her  arms,  as  1  should  not  be  able  tc 
think  that  1  io,w  was  their  occupant." 

"Now,  tha.  what  I  call  being  of  a  mighty  jealous  sort  of 
disposition,  'squire.  I'm  sure  that  you're  wrong  in  your  notion 
of  Miss  Mary.  I  don't  think  she'd  be  the  woman  to  do  wrong 
in  that  way.  She's  a  mighty  nice  girl,  is  so  modest  and  well 
behaved,  and  so  much  of  a  lady;  I'm  always  afraid  to  look  at 
her  when  I  speak  to  her ;  and  she  carries  herself  so  high,  that 
I'm  sure  if  a  man  had  anything  wrong  to  say  to  her,  he  could 
not  say  it  if  he  looked  at  her  and  saw  her  look." 

"Ay,  that  is  her  look  to  you,  Pickett,  and  to  me,  perhaps, 
whom  she  does  not  love,*'  said  John  bitterly ;  "  but  let  her  look 
on  Richard  Ilurdis,  and  meet  his  eye,  and  the  face  changes 
fast  enough.  She  has  no  dignified  look  for  him  ;  no  cold,  com 
posed,  commanding  voice.  Oh,  no !  It  is  then  her  turn  to 
tremble,  and  to  speak  brokenly  and  with  downcast  eyes;  it  is 
then  her  turn  to  feel  the  power  of  another,  and  to  forget  her 
own ;  to  be  awed,  rather  than  to  awe ;  to  fear  herself,  rather 
than  to  inspire  that  fear  in  him  which  she  may  in  both  of  us." 

"  I  reckon  he  feels  it  too,  'squire,  quite  as  much,  if  not  more, 
than  you ;  for,  say  what  you  please,  there's  no  saying  Richard 
Hurdis  don't  love  her.  I've  watched  him  often  when  he's  been 
with  her,  and  when  he  has  not  thought  that  anybody  was  look 
ing  at  him  —  and  that  was  at  a  time,  too,  when  I  had  no  reason 
to  like  any  bone  in  his  skin  —  and  I  saw  enough  to  feel  certain 
that  he  felt  a  real,  earnest  love  for  her." 

"  Let  us  say  no  more  of  that  now,"  said  John  Hurdis  coldly, 
as  if  not  altogether  pleased  with  the  tone  of  his  companion's 
speech  "  Do  you  like  him  any  better  now,  Ben  Pickett  ?  is 
he  not  the  same  man  to  you  now  that  he  has  ever  beer  ?  would 
he  not  i? rive  you  out  of  the  country  if  he  could  ?  has  he  not 
tried  to  do  it  ?  And  who  was  it  stood  between  you  and  the 
whipping-post,  when,  at  the  head  of  the  connty  regulators,  he 
would  have  dragged  you  to  it,  fo»-  robb-ng  the  coinhouse,  and 


GUILTY    PRACTICE.  87 

buying  cotton  from  the  negroes?  Have  you  forgotten  all  this 
Ben  Pickett?  and  do  you  like  Richard  Hurdis  any  better  when 
you  remember  that,  to  this  moment,  he  has  not  relaxed  against 
you,  and,  to  my  knowledge,  only  a  month  ago  threatened  you 
with  the  horsewhip,  if  he  found  you  prowling  about  the  plan 
tation?" 

"  Ay,  I  hear  you,"  said  the  man,  while  the  thick  sweat  actu 
ally  stood  upon  his  forehead,  as  he  listened  to  an  enumeration 
of  events  from  which  his  peril  had  been  great — "I  hear  you, 
John  Hurdis:  all  is  true  that  you  say,  but  you  say  not  all  the 
truth.  Did  you  hear  what  I  said  to  Richard  Hurdis  when  he 
threatened  me  with  the  horsewhip?  do  you  know  what  I  said 
to  myself,  and  swore  in  my  own  heart,  when  he  would  have 
hauled  me  to  the  whipping-post  from  which  you  saved  me? " 

"No;  what  said  you?  what  did  you  swear?" 

"  To  put  my  bullet  through  his  head,  if  he  laid  the  weight  of 
his  finger  upon  me;  and  but  that  you  saved  him  in  saving  me, 
so  surely  would  I  have  shot  him,  had  the  regulators  tied  me  to 
the  tree  and  used  one  hickory  upon  me." 

"  I  was  a  fool  for  saving  you,  then,  Pickett  —  that's  all.  Had 
I  known  that  you  could  so  well  have  fought  your  own  battles, 
I  had  let  him  go  on.  I  am  not  sorry,  Ben,  that  I  saved  you 
from  the  whip;  but,  by  G — d,  I  am  sorry  to  the  soul  that  I  saved 
him  from  the  shot!" 

"  I'm  not  sorry,"  said  the  other.  "  Let  Richard  Hurdis  live; 
I  wish  him  no  harm,  I  could  even  like  him;  for,  blast  me,  but 
he  has  something  about  him  that  I'm  always  glad  to  see  in  a 
man,  and  if  he  would  only  let  me  alone — ' 

"  He  will  not  let  you  alone,  Ben  Pickett.  He  can  not  let  you 
alone,  if  you  would  look  at  the  matter.  He  comes  back  from 
the  '  nation,'  and  Mary  Easterby  is  still  unmarried.  What  then 
—  an  explanation  takes  place  between  them.  They  find  out 
the  truth:  they  find,  perhaps,  that  you  put  the  letter  in  the  way 
of  Mary  that  told  her  about  Richard's  doings  at  Coosauda;  that 
you  have  been  my  agent  in  breeding  the  difference  between 
them.  More  than  this,  they  marry,  and  Richard  brings  his 
wife  home  to  live  with  him  at  the  old  man's,  where,  if  he  does 
that,  he  will  have  full  authority.  Do  you  suppose,  when  that 
time  comes  I  will  stay  in  the  neighborhood?  Impossible.  It 


88  RICHARD  HURDIS. 

will  be  as  impossible  for  me  to  stay  here  as  it  will  be  for  you 
The  moment  I  go,  who  will  protect  you?  Kichard  will  rout 
you  out  of  the  neighborhood;  he  has  sworn  to  do  it;  and  we 
both  know  him  too  well  not  to  know  that,  if  he  once  gets  the 
powder  to  do  what  he  swears,  he  will  not  hesitate  to  use  it.  He 
will  drive  you  to  Red  river  as  sure  as  you're  a  living  man." 

"Let  the  time  come,"  said  the  other  gloomily,  "let  the  time 
come.  Why  do  you  tell  me  of  this  matter  now,  'squire?" 

"You  are  cold  and  dull,  Ben  Pickett  —  you  are  getting  old," 
said  John  Hurdis,  with  something  like  asperity.  "Do  I  not 
tell  you  other  things?  do  you  not  hear  that  Richard  Hurdis  sets 
off  to-morrow  for  the  '  nation '  ?  I  have  shown  you  that  his  ab 
sence  is  of  benefit  to  both  of  us,  that  is  return  is  to  our  mutual 
injury.  Why  should  he  return.  The  gamblers  may  cut  his 
throat  and  the  fighting  Choctaws  may  shoot  him  down  among 
their  forests,  and  nobody  will  be  the  wiser,  and  both  of  us  the 
better  for  it." 

"Why,  let  them,  it  will  be  happy  riddance,"  said  Pickett. 

"To  be  sure,  let  them,"  said  the  other  impatiently;  "but 
suppose  they  do  not,  Ben?  should  we  not  send  them  a  message, 
telling  them  that  they  will  serve  and  please  us  much  by  doing 
so?  that  they  will  rid  us  of  a  very  troublesome  enemy,  and  that 
they  have  full  permission  to  put  him  to  death  as  soon  as  they 
please." 

"Well,  to  say  the  truth,  'Squire  John,"  said  Pickett,  "I  don't 
see  what  you're  driving  at." 

"You  mean  that  you  won't  see,  Ben,"  responded  the  other 
quickly;  "  listen  awhile.  You  are  agreed  that  it  will  do  us  no 
small  service  if  the  gamblers  or  the  Choctaws  put  a  bullet 
through  the  ribs  of  Richard  Hurdis;  it  will  be  a  benefit  rather 
than  a  harm  to  us." 

"Well." 

"  But  suppose  they  think  it  will  not  benefit  them,  are  we  to 
forgo  our  benefits  because  they  show  themselves  selfish?  Shall 
Richard  Hurdis  survive  the  Choctaws,  and  come  home  to  trouble 
us?  Think  of  it,  Ben  Pickett;  what  folly  it  would  be  to  suffer 
it!  Why  not  speed  some  one  after  the  traveler,  who  will  ap 
prize  the  gamblers,  or  the  Choctaws,  of  our  enemy  —  who  will 
show  them  how  troublesome  he  is  —  how  he  carries  a  good  sum 


GUILTY    PRACTICE.  89 

of  money  in  his  saddle-bags  ?  how  easy  it  will  be  for  them  to  stop 
a  troublesome  traveller  who  has  money  in  his  saddle-bags  ?  It  may 
be  that  such  a  messenger  might  do  the  business  himself  in  con 
sideration  of  the  benefit  and  the  money  ;  but  how  should  we  or  any 
body  know  that  it  was  done  by  him  ?  The  Choctaws,  Ben  —  the 
Choctaws  will  get  the  blame,  we  the  benefit,  and  our  messenger, 
if  he  pleases,  the  money." 

"I  understand  you  now,  'squire,"  said  Pickett. 

"I  knew  you  would,"  replied  John  Hurdis,  "and  only  wonder 
that  you  did  not  readily  comprehend  before.  Hear  me,  Ben:  I 
have  a  couple  of  hundred  dollars  to  spare  —  they  are  at  your 
service.  Take  horse  to-morrow,  and  track  Richard  Hurdis  into 
the  '  nation ; '  he  is  your  enemy  and  mine.  He  is  gone  there  to 
look  for  land.  Give  him  as  much  as  he  needs.  Six  feet  will 
answer  all  his  purposes,  if  your  rifle  carries  as  truly  now  as  it  did 
a  year  ago." 

The  man  looked  about  him  with  apprehension  ere  he  replied. 
When  he  did  so,  his  voice  had  sunk  into  a  hoarse  breathing,  the 
syllables  of  which  were  scarce  distinguishable. 

"I  will  do  it,"  he  said,  grasping  the  hand  of  his  cold  and  cow 
ardly  tempter,  "I  will  do  it  —  it  shall  be  done;  but,  by  G — d, 
'squire,  I  would  much  rather  do  it  with  his  whip  warm  upon  my 
back,  and  his  angry  curses  loud  in  my  ears." 

"Do  it  as  you  will,  Ben;  but  let  it  be  done.  The  Choctaws 
are  a  cruel  and  treacherous  people,  and  these  gamblers  of  the  Mis 
sissippi  are  quite  as  bad.  Their  murders  are  very  common.  It  was 
very  imprudent  for  Richard  to  travel  at  this  season  ;  but  if  he  dies, 
he  has  nobody  but  himself  to  blame." 

They  separated.  The  infernal  compact  was  made  and  chronicled 
in  their  mutual  memories,  and  witnessed  only  by  the  fiends  that 
prompted  the  hellish  purpose. 


90  RICHARD   HURDIS. 


CHAPTEK   XII. 

A  POOR  MAN'S  WIFE. 

"  Thou  trust 'st  a  villain  ;  he  will  take  thy  hand 
And  use  it  for  his  own ;  yet  when  the  brand 
Hews  the  dishonored  member — not  his  loss  — 
Thou  art  the  victim !  '''—The  FUglit. 

WHEN  Pickett  returned  to  his  hovel,  on  leaving  John  Hurdis,  his 
wife  abruptly  addressed  him  thus  : — 

"Look  you,  Ben,  John  Hurdis  comes  after  no  good  to-night. 
I  see  it  in  that  smile  he  has.  I  know  there's  mischief  in  his 
eye.  He  laughs,  but  he  does  not  look  on  you  while  he  laughs: 
it  isn't  an  honest  laugh,  as  if  the  heart  was  in  it,  and  as  if  he 
wasn't  afraid  to  have  everything  known  in  his  heart.  He's  a 
bad  man,  Ben,  whatever  other  people  may  think ;  and,  though 
he  has  helped  you  once  or  twice,  I  don't  think  him  any  more 
certain  your  friend  for  all  that.  He  only  wants  to  make  use  of 
you;  and  if  you  let  him  go  too  far,  Ben,  mark  my  words,  he'll 
leave  you  one  day  in  a  worse  hobble  than  ever  he  helped  you 
out  of." 

"Pshaw,  Betsy,  how  you  talk  !  you've  a  spite  against  John  Hur 
dis,  and  that's  against  reason  too.  You  forget  how  he  saved  me 
from  his  brother." 

"No,  I  do  nor  forget  it,  Ben.  He  did  no  more  than  any  man 
should  have  done  who  saw  a  dozen  about  to  trample  upon  one. 
He  saved  you,  it  is  true,  but  he  has  made  you  pay  him  for  it. 
He  has  made  you  work  for  him  long  enough  for  it,  high  and 
low,  playing  a  dirty  sort  of  a  game ;  carrying  letters  to  throw 
in  people's  paths,  there's  no  knowing  for  what ;  and  telling  you 
what  to  say  in  people's  ears,  when  you  haven't  always  been 
certain  that  you've  been  speaking  truth  when  you  did  so.  I 
don't  forget  that  he  served  you,  Ben,  but  I  also  know  that  you 


A  POOR  MAN'S  WIFE.  91 

are  serving  him  day  and  night  in  return.  Besides,  Ben,  what  he 
did  for  you  is  what  one  gentleman  might  readily  do  for  another  : 
I'm  not  sure  that  what  he  makes  you  do  for  him  isn't  rascal- 
work." 

"Hush!"  said  Pickett,  in  a  whisper,  "you  talk  too  loud.  Is 
Jane  asleep?" 

The  watchful  idiot,  with  the  cunning  of  imbecility  which  still  has 
its  object,  closed  her  eyes,  and  put  on  the  appearance  of  one  lost  to 
all  consciousness. 

"  Yes,  she's  asleep  ;  but  what  if  she  does  hear  us?  She's  our  own 
child,  though  not  a  wise  one,  and  it  will  be  hard  if  we  can't  trust  our 
selves  to  speak  before  her,"  said  the  mother. 

"  But  there's  something,  Betsy,  that  we  shouldn't  speak  at  all 
before  anybody." 

"  I  hope  the  business  of  John  Hurdis  ain't  of  that  character,  Ben 
Pickett,"  she  retorted  quickly. 

"  And  what  if  it  is? "  he  replied. 

"  Why  then,  Ben,  you  should  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,  if  you'll 
mind  wbat  I'm  telling  you.  John  Hurdis  will  get  you  into  trouble. 
He's  a  bad  man." 

"  What,  for  helping  me  out  of  trouble  ?  " 

"No,  but  for  hating  his  own  brother  as  he  does,  his  own  flesh 
and  blood  as  I  may  say,  the  child  that  has  suckled  at  the  same 
nipple  with  himself  ;  and,  what's  worse,  for  fearing  the  man  he 
hates.  Now,  I  say  that  the  hate  is  bad  enough,  and  must  lead  to 
harm  ;  but  when  he's  a  coward  that  hates,  then  nothing's  too  bad  for 
him  to  do,  provided  he  can  keep  from  danger  when  he  does  it. 
That's  the  man  to  light  the  match,  and  run  away  from  the 
explosion.  He'll  make  you  the  match,  and  he'll  take  your  fingers 
to  light  it,  and  then  take  to  his  own  heels  and  leave  you  all  the 
danger. " 

"  Pshaw,  Betsy,  you  talk  like  a  woman  and  a  child,"  said  Pickett, 
with  an  air  of  composure  and  indifference,  which  he  was  far  from 
feeling. 

"  And  so  I  do,  Ben  ;  and  if  you'll  listen  to  a  woman's  talk,  it  will 
be  wise.  It  would  have  saved  you  many  times  before,  and  it  may  do 
much  to  save  you  now.  Why  should  you  do  any  business  that 
you're  afraid  to  lay  out  to  me.  There  must  be  something  wrong  in 
it,  I'm  sure  ;  and  it  can't  be  no  small  wrong  neither,  Ben,  that  you're 


92  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

afraid  to  tell  me.  What  should  the  rich  'Squire  Hurdis  want  of 
Ben  Pickett  the  squatter  ?  Why  should  he  come  palavering  you, 
and  me,  and  that  poor  child  with  fine  words  ;  and  what  can  we,  poor 
and  mean  and  hated  as  we  are  by  everybody,  what  can  we  do  for  so 
great  a  man  as  him  ?  I  tell  you,  Ben  Pickett,  he  wants  you  to  do 
dirty  work,  that  he's  ashamed  and  afraid  to  do  himself.  That's 
it,  Ben ;  and  there's  no  denying  it.  Now,  why  should  you  do 
his  dirty  work  ?  He's  better  able  to  do  it  himself,  he's  rich 
enough  to  do  almost  what  he  pleases  ;  and  you,  Ben,  you're  too 
poor  to  do  even  what  is  proper.  These  rich  men  ask  what  right  a 
poor  man  has  to  be  good  and  honest ;  they  expect  him  to  be  a 
rascal." 

"  Well,"  said  the  other  sulkily,  "  we  ought  to  be  so,  then,  if  it's 
only  to  oblige  them." 

"No,  Ben  Pickett,  we  ought  hardly  to  oblige  them  in  anything; 
but,  whether  we  would  oblige  them  or  not,  my  notion  is,  we  ought 
to  keep  different  tracks  from  them  altogether.  If  we  are  too  mean 
and  poor,  to  be  seen  by  them  without  turning  up  their  noses,  let  us 
take  care  not  to  see  them  at  any  time,  or  if  we  do  see  them,  let  us 
make  use  of  our  eyes  to  take  different  tracks  from  them.  There's 
always  two  paths  in  the  world,  the  one's  a  big  path  for  big  people  ; 
let  them  have  it  to  themselves,  and  let  us  keep  off  it ;  the  other's  a 
little  path  for  the  little,  let  them  stick  to  it  and  no  jostling.  It's  the 
misfortune  of  poor  people  that  they're  always  poking  into  the  wrong 
path,  trying  to  swell  up  to  the  size  of  the  big,  and  making  them 
selves  mean  by  doing  so.  No  wonder  the  rich  despise  such  people. 
I  despise  them  myself,  though  God  knows  I'm  one  of  the  poorest." 

"I'm  not  one  to  poke  in  big  paths."  said  Pickett. 

"  No  !  But  why  do  big  folks  come  out  of  their  road  into  yours, 
Ben  Pickett  ?  I'll  tell  you.  Because  they  think  they  can  buy  you  to 
go  into  any  path,  whether  big  or  little,  high  or  low,  clean  or  dirty. 
John  Hurdis  says  in  his  heart,  I'm  rich  ;  Pickett's  poor  ;  my  riches 
can  buy  his  poverty  to  clean  the  road  for  me  where  it's  dirty.  Isn't 
that  it,  Ben  Pickett  ? " 

The  keen  gray  eyes  of  the  woman  were  fixed  on  him  with  a 
glance  of  penetration,  as  she  spoke  these  words,  that  seemed  to 
search  his  very  soul.  The  eyes  of  Pickett  shrank  from  beneath  their 
stare. 


A  POOR  MAN'S  WIFE.  93 

"Betsy,  you're  half  a  witch,"  he  exclaimed  with  an  effort  at 
jocularity  which  was  not  successful. 

"I  knew  it  was  something  like  that,  Ben  Pickett.  John  Hurdis 
would  never  seek  you,  except  when  he  had  dirty  work  on  hand. 
Now,  what's  the  work,  Ben  Pickett  ?" 

"That's  his  secret,  Betsy  :  and  you  know  I  can't  tell  you  what 
concerns  only  another  and  not  us." 

"  It  concerns  you  ;  it  is  your  secret  too  ;  Ben  Pickett  —  it  is  my 
secret —  it  is  the  secret  of  that  poor  child." 

The  speaker  little  knew  that  the  idiot  was  keenly  listening.  She 
continued  : — 

"  If  it's  to  do  this  work,  and  if  it's  work  done  in  his  name,  work 
that  you  won't  be  ashamed  of,  and  he  won't  be  ashamed  of  when  it's 
done,  Ben  Pickett,  then  it's  all  right  enough.  You  may  keep  his 
secret  and  welcome  ;  I  would  not  turn  on  my  heel  to  know  it.  But 
if  it's  dirty  work  that  you'll  both  be  ashamed  of,  such  as  car 
rying  stories  to  Mary  Easterby,  who  is  a  good  girl,  and  de 
serves  the  best  ;  then  it's  but  too  much  of  that  sort  of  work 
you've  done  already." 

"It's  nothing  like  that,"  said  Pickett  quickly.  "But  don't 
bother  me  any  more  about  it,  Betsy;  for  if  you  were  to  guess  a 
hundred  times,  and  guess  right,  I  shouldn't  tell  you.  So  have 
done  and  go  to  bed." 

"  Ben  Pickett,  I  warn  you,  take  care  what  you  do.  This 
man,  John  Hurdis,  is  too  strong  for  you.  He's  Avinning  you 
fast,  he'll  wrong  you  soon.  You're  working  for  him  too  cheaply; 
he'll  laugh  at  you  when  you  come  for  pay;  and  may  be  put  to 
your  own  account  the  work  you  do  on  his.  Beware,  look  what 
you're  about,  keep  your  eyes  open;  for  I  see  clear  as  daylight, 
that  you're  in  a  bad  way.  The  work  must  be  worse  than  dirty 
you're  going  upon  now,  when  you  are  so  afraid  to  speak  of  it 
to  me." 

"I  tell  you,  Betsy,  shut  up.  It's  his  business,  not  mine,  and 
I'm  not  free  to  talk  of  it  even  to  you.  Enough  that  I  don't 
work  for  nothing.  The  worst  that  you  shall  know  of  it  will 
be  the  money  it  will  bring." 

"The  devil's  money  blisters  the  fingers.  And  what's  money 
to  me,  Ben  Pickett,  or  what  is  money  to  you?  What  can 
money  do  for  us?  Can  it  make  men  love  us  and  seek  us? 


94  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

Can  it  bring  us  pride  and  character?  Can  it  make  me  forget 
the  scorn  that  I've  been  fed  on  from  the  time  I  was  a  simpler 
child  than  that  poor  idiot  in  the  corner?  Can  it  bring  sense 
into  her  mind,  and  make  us  proud  of  her?  Can  it  make  you 
forget  or  others  forget,  Ben  Pickett,  that  you  have  been  hauled 
to  the  whipping-post,  and  saved  from  it  only  to  be  the  slave  of 
a  base  coward,  such  as  John  Hurdis  has  ever  been,  and  ever 
will  be?" 

"No  more  of  that,  Bets}',  if  j'ou  please.  You  are  quite  too 
fond  of  bringing  up  that  whipping-post." 

"And  if  I  do,  it  has  its  uses.  I  wish  you  would  think  of  it 
half  as  frequently,  Ben  Pickett;  you  would  less  frequently 
stand  in  danger  of  it.  But  I  speak  of  it,  because  it  is  one  of 
the  black  spots  in  my  memory  —  like  the  lack  of  that  child  — 
like  the  scorn  of  those  around  us  —  like  everything  that  belongs 
to  us,  as  we  are  living  now.  Why  will  you  not  go,  as  I  wish 
you,  away  from  this  neighborhood?  Let  us  go  to  the  Red 
river  where  we  know  nobod}7;  where  nobody  knows  us.  Let 
us  go  among  the  savages,  if  you  please,  Ben  Pickett,  where  I 
may  see  none  of  the  faces  that  remind  me  of  our  shame." 

"  Why,  so  we  will.  Just  as  you  say,  Betsy,  I  will  but  do 
some  business  that  I'm  bound  for,  that  will  give  us  money  to 
go  up  and  then " 

"  No,  don't  wait  for  that.  Let  the  money  stay  ;  we  have 
enough  to  carry  us  to  the  Red  river,  and  we  shall  want  but 
little  of  it  there.  When  you  talk  to  me  of  money  you  vex  me. 
We  have  no  use  for  it.  We  want  hommony  only  and  homespun. 
These  are  enough  to  keep  from  cold  and  hunger.  To  use  more 
money,  Ben  Pickett,  we  must  be  good  and  conscious  of  good. 
We  must  not  stand  in  fear  and  shame,  to  meet  other  than  our 
own  eyes.  I  have  that  fear  and  shame,  Ben  Pickett :  and  this 
dirty  business  of  John  Hurdis  —  it  must  be  dirty  since  it  must 
be  a  secret  —  makes  me  feel  new  fear  of  what  is  to  come;  and 
I  feel  even  shame  to  sickness  as  I  think  upon  it.  Here  me, 
Ben ;  hear  me  while  it  is  in  time  for  me  to  speak.  There  may 
not  be  time  tomorrow,  and  if  you  do  not  listen  to  me  now, 
you  might  listen  another  day  in  vain.  Drop  this  business  of 
John  Hurdis ' 

"I've  promised  him," 


A  POOR  MAN'S  WIFE.  95 

"Break  your  promise." 

"  No!  d d  if  I  do  that!  " 

"  And  why  not?  There's  no  shame  in  breaking  a  bad  promise. 
There  shame  and  cowardice  in  keeping  it," 

"  I'm  no  coward,  Betsy." 

"  You  are!  You  are  afraid  to  speak  the  truth  to  me,  to  your  wife 
and  child.  I  dare  you  to  wake  up  that  poor  idiot  and  say  to  her, 
weak  and  foolish  as  she  is,  the  business  you  are  going  on  for  John 
Hurdis.  You'd  fear  that,  in  her  very  ignorance,  she  would  tell  you 
that  your  intention  was  crime !  " 

"Crime?" 

"Ay,  crime  —  lies,  perhaps,  in  a  poor  girl's  ear  —  theft;  perhaps 
the  robbery  of  some  traveler  on  the  highway;  perhaps  —  per 
haps —  Oh,  Ben  Pickett,  my  husband,  I  pray  to  God  it  be  not 
murder! " 

"  Damnation,  woman!  will  3*011  talk  all  night?"  cried  the  pale  and 
quivering  felon  in  a  voice  of  thunder.  "  To  bed,  I  say,  and  shut  up. 
Let  us  have  no  more  of  this." 

The  idiot  girl  started  in  terror  from  her  mattress. 

"  Lie  down,  child;  what  do  you  rise  for?  " 

The  stern  manner  of  her  father  frightened  her  into  obedience,  and 
she  resumed  her  couch,  wrapping  the  coverlet  over  her  head,  and 
thus,  hiding  her  face  and  hushing  her  sobs  at  the  same  moment.  The 
wife  concluded  the  dialogue  by  a  repetition  of  her  exhortation  in 
brief. 

"Once  more,  Ben,  I  warn  you.  You  arc  in  danger.  You  will 
tell  me  nothing;  but  you  have  told  me  all.  I  know  you  well  enough 
to  know  that  you  have  sold  yourself  to  do  wrong —  that  John  Hurdis 
has  bought  you  to  do  that  which  he  has  not  the  courage  to  do  him 
self—" 

"  Yet  you  say  I  am  a  coward." 

"  I  say  so  still.  I  wish  you  were  brave  enough  to  want  no  more 
money  than  you  can  honestly  get;  and  when  a  richer  man  than  }rour- 
self  comes  to  buy  you  to  do  that  which  he  is  too  base  to  do  himself, 
to  take  him  by  the  shoulders  and  tumble  him  from  the  door.  Unfor 
tunately  you  have  courage  enough  to  do  wrong  —  there's  a  greater 
courage- than  that,  Ben  Pickett,  that  strengthens  even  a  starving  man 
to  do  right." 

Pickett  felt  that  he  had  not  this  courage,  and  his  wife  had  before 


96  KICHARD  HURDIS. 

this  discovered  that  the  power  was  not  in  her  to  endow  him  with  it. 
Both  parties,  were  compelled  when  they  discovered  the  idiot  girl  to 
be  awake  and  watchful,  to  forego  their  discussion  of  the  subject  for 
the  night;  and  when  the  woman  did  resume  it,  which  she  did  with  a 
tenacity  of  purpose,  worthy  of  a  more  ostentatious  virtue,  she  was 
only  succesful  in  arousing  that  sort  of  anger  in  her  companion,  which 
is  but  too  much  the  resort  of  the  wilful  when  the  argument  goes 
against  them.  It  was  more  easy  for  Pickett,  with  the  sort  of  courage 
which  he  possessed,  to  do  wrong  than  right,  and  having  once  resolved 
to  sin,  the  exhortations  of  virtue  were  only  so  many  suggestions  to 
obstinacy.  With  a  warmth  and  propriety  infinitely  beyond  her  situ 
ation  did  the  wife  plead;  but  her  earnestness,  though  great,  was  not 
equal  to  the  doggedness  of  his  resolve.  She  was  compelled  to  give 
up  the  cause  in  despair. 


THE   BLOODHOUND    ON   THE   SCENT.  97 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  BLOODHOUND  ON  THE  SCENT. 

41  His  was  the  fault ;  be  his  the  punishment. 
'Tis  not  own  their  crimes  only  men  commit; 
They  harrow  them  into  another's  breast, 
And  they  shall  reap  the  bitter  growth  with  pain." 

LAN  DBS. 

THE  messenger  of  blood  departed  the  next  day  upon  his 
fearful  mission.  His  calculation  was  to  keep  due  paee  with 
his  victim;  to  watch  his  progress  ;  command  Iris  person  at  all 
times,  and  to  avail  himself  of  the  first  fitting  opportunity,  to  ex 
ecute  the  cruel  trust  which  he  had  undertaken.  Such  a  pur 
pose  required  the  utmost  precaution  and  some  little  time.  To 
do  the  deed  might  be  often  easy  ;  to  do  it  secretly  and  success 
fully,  but  seldom.  He  was  to  watch  the  single  moment  in  a 
thousand,  and  be  ready  to  use  it  before  it  was  gone  forever. 

"You  will  not  be  gone  long,  Ben?"  said  the  wife,  as  he 
busied  himself  in  preparation. 

"I  know  not  — a  day,  a  week,  a  mouth!  —  I  know  not.  It 
matters  little  ;  you  can  do  without  me." 

"  Yes,  your  wife  can  do  without  you  —  I  wish  that  John  Hurdis 
could  do  without  you  .also.  I  do  not  like  this  business,  Ben,  upon 
which  he  sends  you  now." 

"What  business?  what  know  you  of  it?"  he  demanded 
hastily.  "  Why  should  you  dislike  the  business  which  you  know 
nothing  about  ? " 

"  That's  the  very  reason  that  makes  me  dislike  it.  Why  should  I 
know  nothing  about  it  ?  Why  should  a  man  keep  his  business  from 
his  wife's  knowledge  ? " 

"Good  reason  enough,  to  keep  it  from  the  knowledge  of 
everybody  else.  You  might  as  well  print  it  in  the  Montgomery 


98  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

paper,  as  to  tell  it  to  a  woman.  There  won't  be  a  Methodist 
preacher  that  don't  hear  of  it  the  first  week,  and  not  a  meeting 
in  the  country  that  won't  talk  of  it  in  the  second.  They  have  quite 
enough  of  other  folks'  affairs  to  blab,  Betsey  ;  we  needn't  give  them 
any  of  mine." 

' '  You  well  enough  know,  Ben  Pickett,  that  this  sort  of  talk 
means  nothing.  You  know  I  am  not  the  "woman  to  make  her 
own  or  her  husband's  concerns  the  business  of  the  country.  I 
go  not  often  to  the  church.  I  do  not  often  see  the  preachers, 
and  there  is  very  little  to  say  between  us.  It  might  be  much 
better  if  there  wrere  more :  and  you  know  well  enough  that  I 
see  few  women  and  have  no  neighbors.  We  are  not  the  people 
to  have  neighbors  —  what  would  tempt  them?  It  is  enough  for 
me,  Ben,  to  stay  at  home,  and  keep  as  much  out  of  sight  as  I  can, 
as  well  on  your  own  account  as  on  account  of  that  poor  ignorant 
creature." 

"Pshaw  !  you  talk  too  much  of  Jane,  and  think  too  much  of  her 
folly.  She  is  no  more  a  fool  than  most  other  girls  of  her  age,  and 
talks  far  less  nonsense.  She's  quite  as  good  as  any  of  them,  and  a 
devilish  sight  handsomer  than  most  of  them.  There's  hardly  one 
that  wouldn't  be  glad  to  have  her  face." 

"You  mean  me,  father  Ben,  don't  you  !"  said  the  witless  one, 
perking  up  her  face  with  a  smile,  and  raising  it  under  the  chin  of 
Pickett.. 

"Go,  Jane,  go  and  put  things  to  rights  on  the  table,  and  don't 
mind  what  we're  a  saying." 

The  girl  obeyed  reluctantly,  and  the  father,  tapping  her  on 
the  bead  kindly,  the  only  parting  which  he  gave  her,  left  the 
house,  and  proceeded  to  his  horse  which  was  fastened  to  the 
fence.  There  he  arranged  the  saddle,  and  while  thus  employed  his 
wife  came  to  him. 

"Ben  Pickett,"  she  said,  resumiug  the  subject  of  her  apprehen 
sions,  "I  hear  that  Richard  Hurdis  is  going  to  the  'nation' 
to-day." 

' '  Well  !  what  of  that ! "  said  Pickett  gruffly. 

"  Nothing  but  this,  Ben  ;  I'm  afraid  that  his  going  to  the  '  nation' 
has  something  to  do  with  your  journey.  Now,  I  don't  know  what 
it  is  that  troubles  me,  but  I  am  troubled,  and  have  been  so  ever 
since  I  heard  that  Richard  was  going  to-day." 


THE  BLOODHOUND  ON  THE  SCENT         99 

"And  bow  did  you  hear  it?" 

"  From  Jane." 

"Jane,  the  fool!  and  how  did  she  hear  it?" 

"She's  a  fool,  but  there's  no  need  for  you  to  call  her  so  al 
ways,  Ben.  It's  not  right;  it's  not  like  a  father.  As  for 
where  she  heard  it,  I  can't  say;  I  didn't  ask  her;  perhaps 
from  some  of  the  negroes;  old  Billy,  from  'Squire  Easteby's 
was  over  here,  last  night." 

"Last  night!  old  Billy!  at  what  hour  was  he  here?" 

"Nay  I  don't  know  exactly.  He  went  away  just  before 
John  Hurdis  came." 

Pickett  appeared  annoyed  by  the  intelligence,  but  was  silent 
and  concealed  his  annoyance,  whatever  may  have  occasioned 
it,  by  strapping  his  saddle  and  busying  himself  with  the  bridle 
of  his  horse. 

"You  say  nothing,  Ben;  but  tell  me,  I  beg  you,  and  ease 
my  mind,  only  tell  me  that  the  business  you're  going  upon  don't 
concern  Richard  Hurdis.  Say,  only  say,  you  don't  go  the 
same  road  with  Richard  Hurdis,  that  you  didn't  know  that  he 
was  going,  that  you  won't  follow  him." 

"And  how  should  I  say  such  a  thing,  Betsy,"  replied  the 
now  obdurate  ruffian,  "  when  I  don't  know  which  road  he's 
going?  How  can  I  follow  him,  if  I  don't  know  the  track  he 
takes? " 

"That's  not  it  —  not  it.  Tell  me  that  you  won't  try  to  find 
it,  that  you  don't  mean  to  follow  him,  that  —  oh!  my  God,  that 
I  should  ask  such  a  thing  of  my  husband  —  that  you  are  not 
going  after  Richard  Hurdis  to  kill  him?" 

"Betsy,  you're  a  worse  fool  than  Jane,"  was  the  reply  of 
Pickett.  "  What  the  devil  put  such  nonsense  into  your  head? 
What  makes  you  think  I  would  do  such  a  thing?  It's  true,  I 
hate  Dick  Hurdis,  but  I  don't  hate  him  bad  enough  to  kill  him 
unless  in  fair  fight.  If  he'll  give  me  fair  fight  at  long  shot,  by 
G — d,  I'd  like  nothing  better  than  to  crack  at  him;  but  I'm  not 
thinking  of  him.  If  I  had  wanted  to  kill  him,  don't  you  think 
I'd  a  done  it  long  before,  when  he  was  kicking  me  about  like  a 
foot-ball.  You  may  be  sure  I  won't  try  to  do  it  now,  when  he's 
let  me  alone,  and  when,  as  you  say  yourself,  he's  going  out  of 
the  country.  Damn  him,  let  him  go  in  peace,  say  I." 


100  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

"Amen,"  exclaimed  the  woman,  "amen;  yet  look  you,  Ben 
Fickett.  What  you  mightn't  feel  wicked  enough  to  do  for  your 
self,  you  may  be  weak  enough  to  do  for  one  who  is  more  wicked 
than  you  are.  That's  the  misfortune  of  a  great  many  people;  and 
the  devil  gets  them  to  do  a  great  deal  of  work  which  they 
wouldn't  be  willing  to  do  on  their  own  account,  Oh,  Ben,  take 
care  of  that  John  Hurdis.  If  you  didn't  hate  Richard  Hurdis  bad 
enough  to  kill  him  on  your  own  score,  don't  let  that  cowardly 
John  tempt  you  to  do  it  for  him.  I  know  he  hates  his  brother 
and  wants  to  get  him  out  of  the  way;  for  he  wants  to  marry 
Mary  Easterby;  but  don't  let  him  make  use  of  you  in  any  of 
his  wickedness.  He  stands  no  chance  of  Mary  with  all  his  trying, 
for  I  know  she  won't  have  him;  and  so  if  you  work  for  him,  you'll 
work  against  the  wind,  as  you  have  done  long  enough  both  for 
yourself  and  him.  But  whether  you  work  for  him  or  not,  hear 
me,  Ben  Pickett,  do  nothing  that  you'll  be  ashamed  or  afraid  to 
near  of  again.  My  mind  misgives  me  about  Dick  Hurdis.  I  wish 
you  were  not  a-going  —  I  wish  you  were  not  a-going  the  same  day 
with  him." 

"Don't  I  tell  you,  Betsy,  I'm  not  on  his  trail.  I  shan't  look  after 
him,  and  don't  care  to  see  him." 

"Yes;  but  should  you  meet  ?" 

"Well,  what  then?  Would  you  have  me  cut  and  run  like  a 
nigger's  dog? 

"No;  but  I  would  not  have  you  go  to-day.  I  would  rather  you 
shouldn't  meet." 

"We  won't,  be  sure  of  that.  I  promise  you,  we  won't  meet;  and, 
if  we  do,  be  sure  we  shan't  quarrel." 

"You'll  promise  that,  Ben?  —  you'll  swear  it?"  said  the  woman 
eagerly. 

"Ay,  to  be  sure  I  will;  I  swear,  Betsy,  I  won't  meet  him,  and  we 
shan't  quarrel  if  I  can  help  it." 

"That's  enough,  Ben;  and  now  go  in  peace,  and  come  back  soon. 
It's  off  my  mind  now,  Ben,  since  you  promise  me;  but  it's  been  a 
trouble  and  a  fear  to  me,  this  going  of  yours  to-day,  ever  since  I  heard 
that  Richard  Hurdis  was  to  be  on  the  road." 

"Pshaw!  you're  a  fool  all  over  about  Dick  Hurdis!"  said  Pickett, 
with  a  burly  air  of  good  humor;  "I  believe  now,  Betsy,  that  you 
like  him  better  than  me." 


THE    BLOODHOUXD    OX    THE    SCEXT.  Wl 

"Like  him!"  exclaimed  the  woman,  relapsing  into  the  phleg 
matic  and  chilling  sterness  of  expression  and  countenance  which 
were  her  wonted  characteristics  in  ordinary  moods.  "Like  him! 
....  neither  like  nor  dislike,  Ben  Pickett,  out  of  this  paling. 
These  old  logs,  and  this  worm  fence,  contain  all  that  I  can  ex 
pend  feeling  upon,  and  when  you  talk  to  me  of  likes  and  dis 
likes,  you  only  laugh  at  your  own  condition  and  mine." 

The  man  said  no  more  and  they  separated.  She  returned 
to  the  house,  and  in  a  few  moments  he  leaped  upon  his  horse, 
which  was  light-made  and  fast-going,  though  small,  animal, 
and  was  soon  out  of  sight  even  of  the  idiot-girl,  who  laughed  and 
beckoned  to  him,  without  being  heeded,  until  his  person  was  no 
longer  visible  in  the  dull  gray  of  the  forest  which  enveloped 
him. 

"Fool!"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  rode  out  of  hearing;  "  fool,  to 
think  to  make  me  swear  what  she  pleases,  and  then  to  take  the 
oath  just  as  I  think  proper!  I  will  not  meet  him,  and  still  less 
will  I  quarrel  with  him,  if  I  can  help  it;  but,  I  will  try  and  put 
a  bullet  through  him  for  all  that!  It's  an  old  score,  and  may 
as  well  be  wiped  out  now  as  never.  This  year  is  just  as  good 
for  settlement  as  the  next.  Indeed,  for  that  matter,  it's  best 
now.  It's  much  the  safest.  lie  breaks  off  from  one  neighbor 
hood,  and  they  know  nothing  of  him  in  any  other.  '  Well/  as 
John  Hurdis  said,  '  the  Choctaws  have  done  it,  or  the  gamblers. 
Ben  Pickett  has  been  too  long  quiet,  and  lives  too  far  from  the 
nation,  to  lay  it  at  his  door.  And  yet,  by  G — d!  it's  true  what 
Betsy  says,  that  John  Hurdis  is  a  poor  coward  after  all!  " 

It  was  in  thoughts  and  musings  such  as  these — sometimes 
muttered  audibly,  but  most  frequently  entertained  in  secret  — 
that  Ben  Pickett  commenced  his  pursuit  of  me,  a  few  hours  only 
after  I  had  begun  my  journey.  Circumstances,  however,  and 
probably  an  error  in  the  directions  given  him  by  my  brother, 
misled  him  from  the  path,  into  which  lie  did  not  fall  until  late 
the  ensuing  day.  This  gave  me  a  start  of  him  which  he  woud 
not  have  made  up,  had  I  not  come  to  a  full  stop  at  Tuscaloosa. 
But  of  this  afterward. 


KICHAUD    Hl'RDIS. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  SILLY  JANE. 

"  She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways, 

Besides  the  springs  of  Dove, 
A  maid,  whom  there  were  none  to  praise, 

And  very  few  to  love, 
A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone, 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye, 
Fair  as  a  star  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky."— WORDSWORTH. 

"  And  yet  lack !  "— SHAKSPERE 

THE  afternoon  of  the  day  following  that  of  Pickett's  depart 
ure  was  one  the  loveliest  among  the  lovely  days  so  frequent 
in  the  Alabama  November.  The  glances  of  the  oblique  sun 
rested  with  benignant  smile,  like  that  of  some  venerable  and 
single-hearted  sire,  upon  the  groves  of  the  forest,  which,  by  this 
time,  had  put  on  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow.  The  cold  airs 
of  coming  winter  had  been  just  severe  enough  to  put  a  flush-like 
glow  into  the  cheeks  of  the  leaf,  and  to  envelop  the  the  green,  here 
and  there,  with  a  coating  of  purple  and  yellow,  which  served  it 
as  some  rich  and  becoming  border,  and  made  the  brief  remains 
of  the  gaudy  garb  of  summer  seem  doubly  rich,  and  far  more 
valuable  in  such  decorations.  Dark  brown  and  blooded  berries 
hung  wantonly  from  bending  branches,  and  trailing  vines,  that 
were  smitten  and  torn  asunder  by  premature  storms  of  cold,  lay 
upon  the  path  and  depended  from  overhead,  with  life  enough 
in  them  still,  even  when  severed  from  the  parent-stem,  to  nour 
ish  and  maintain  the  warm  and  grape-like  clusters  which  they 
bore.  Thousands  of  flowers,  of  all  varieties  of  sh.-ipe  and  color, 
came  out  upon  the  side  of  the  path,  and,  as  it  were,  threw  them 
selves  along  the  thoroughfare  only  to  be  trodden  upon;  while 


THE  SILLY  JANE.  103 

hidden  in  the  deeper  recesses  of  the  woodland,  millions  beside 
appeared  to  keep  themselves  in  store  only  to  supply  the  places 
of  those  which  were  momently  doomed  to  suffer  the  consequences 
of  exposure  and  to  perish  beneath  the  sudden  gusts  of  the  equal 
ly  unheeding  footsteps  of  the  wayfarer.  Hidden  from  sight  only 
by  the  winter  bloom  that  absorbed  all  space,  and  seemed  reso 
lute  to  exclude  from  all  sight,  thousands  of  trees,  of  more 
delicate  nature  already  stripped  of  their  foliage,  stood  like 
mourning  ghosts  or  withered  relics  of  the  past  —  the  melancholy 
spider,  the  only  living  decoration  of  their  gaunt  and  stretching 
arms,  her  web  now  completely  exposed  in  the  absence  of  the 
leaves,  under  whose  sheltering  volume,  it  had  been  begun  in 
secret.  At  moments  the  breeze  would  gather  itself  up  from  the 
dead  leaves  that  strewed  the  paths  of  the  forest,  and  ruffle  lightly, 
in  rising,  the  pleasant  bed  where  it  had  lain.  A  kindred 
ruffler  of  leaves  and  branches,  was  the  nimble  squirrel,  who 
skipped  along  the  forests,  making  all  objects  subservient  to  his 
forward  motion;  and  now  and  then  the  rabbit  timidly  stealing 
out  from  the  long  yellow  grass  beside  the  bay,  would  bound  and 
crouch  alternately;  the  sounds  that  shake  the  lighter  leaves  and 
broken  branches,  stirring  her  heart  with  more  keen  and  lasting  sensa 
tions,  and  compelling  her  to  pause  in  her  progress,  in  constant  dread 
of  the  pursuer. 

A  fitting  dweller  in  a  scene  of  such  innocence  and  simplicity 
was  the  thoughtless  and  unendowed  creature  that  now  enters  it; 
her  hand  filled  with  bush  and  berry  and  leaf,  sought  with  care, 
pursued  with  avidity,  gathered  with  fatigue,  and  thrown  away 
without  regard.  A  thousand  half -formed  plans  in  her  mind  — 
if  the  idiot  child  of  Ben  Pickett  may  be  said  to  possess  one  —  a 
thousand  crowding,  yet  incomplete,  conceits,  hurrying  her  for 
ward  in  a  pursuit  only  begun  to  be  discarded  for  others  more 
bright,  yet  not  more  enduring;  and  from  her  lips  a  heartfelt 
laugh  or  cry  of  triumph  poured  fourth  in  the  merriest  tones  of 
childhood,  while  the  tears  gather  in  her  eye.3,  and  she  sits  upon 
the  grass,  murmuring  and  laughing  and  weeping  all  by  turns, 
and  never  long.  From  the  roadside  she  has  gathered  the 
pale  blue  and  yellow  flowers,  and  these  adorn  her  head  and 
peep  out  from  her  bosom.  Now  she  bounds  away  to  hidden 
bushes  after  flaunting  berries,  and  now  she  throws  herself  upon 


104  RICHARD   HURDIS 

a  bank  and  tears  to  pieces  the  flowers  and  shrubs  which  have 
cost  her  so  much  pains  to  gather. .  She  sings  and  talks  by  turns 
as  she  thus  employs  herself,  and  prating  in  idiot  soliloquy  at  fits, 
she  speaks  to  the  flowers  that  she  rends,  and  has  some  idle  his 
tory  of  each. 

"There's  more  of  blue  than  of  the  others,  and  sure  there 
should  be,  for  the  skies  are  blue,  and  they  take  their  color  from 
the  skies.  But  I  don't  want  so  much  of  the  blue;  I  won't  have 
so  much;  I  must  have  more  yellow;  and  there's  a  little  pink 
flower  that  Mr.  John  showed  me  long  time  ago,  if  1  could  get 
only  one  of  them;  one  would  do  me  to  put  in  the  middle. 
There's  a  meaning  in  that  little  flower,  and  Mr.  John  read  it 
like  a  printed  book.  It  has  drops  of  yellow  in  the  bottom,  and 
it  looks  like  a  little  cup  for  the  birds  to  drink  from,  I  must 
look  for  that.  If  I  can  only  get  one  now,  I  would  keep  it  for 
Mr.  John  to  read,  and  I  would  remember  what  he  tells  me  of  it. 
But  Mr.  John  don't  love  flowers,  he  does  not  wear  them  in  his 
button-hole  as  I  see  Mr.  Richard;  and  Miss  Mary  loves  flowers 
too;  I  always  see  her  with  a  bunch  of  them  in  her  hand,  and 
she  gathers  great  bunches  for  the  fireplace  at  home.  She  reads 
them,  too,  like  a  book;  but  I  will  not  get  her  to  read  my  little 
pink  flower  for  me.  I  will  get  Mr.  John;  for  he  laughs  when 
he  reads  it,  and  Miss  Mary  looks  almost  like  she  would  cry;  and 
she  looks  at  me,  and  she  does  not  look  at  the  flower,  and  she 
carries  me  home  with  her;  but  Mr.  John  takes  me  a  long  walk 
with  him  in  the  woods,  and  we  gather  more  flowers  together, 
and  we  sit  down  upon  the  log,  and  pull  them  to  pieces.  I  wish 
he  would  come  now.  If  he  were  with  me,  I  could  go  deeepr 
into  the  woods;  but  they  look  too  black  when  I  am  by  myself, 
and  I  will  not  go  alone.  There's  more  than  twenty  bears  in 
those  black  woods,  so  mother  tells  me;  and  yet,  when  I  go  there 
with  Mr.  John.  I  don't  see  any,  and  I  don't  even  hear  them 
growl;  they  must  be  afraid  of  him,  and  run  when  know  he's 
coming.  I  wish  he  were  coming  to  read  my  flower.  I  have  one 
—  I  have  two  —  if  he  would  but  come.  Oh,  me,  mother!  —  what's 
that?" 

The  girl  started  from  the  bank  in  fear,  dashing  down  the  flowers 
in  the  same  instant,  and  preparing  herself  for  flight.  The  voice  of 
the  intruder  reassured  her:  — 


THE   SILLY   JANE.  105 

"  Ah,  Jane,  my  pretty,  is  it  you  ? " 

"Dear  me,  Mr.  John,  I'm  so  glad  you're  come!  I  thought  it 
was  the  black  bears.  Mother  says  there's  more  than  twenty  in  these 
woods,  and  tells  me  that  I  musn't  go  into  them  ;  that  they'll  eat  me 
up,  and  won't  even  leavre  my  bones.  But  when  you're  with  me,  Mr. 
John,  I'm  not  afraid  of  the  bears." 

"Humph!"  was  the  muttered  thought  of  the  new-comer  ;  ''not 
the  less  danger  perhaps,  but  of  this  no  matter." 

"So  you're  afraid  of  the  bears,  my  pretty  Jane?"  he  said 
aloud. 

"Ah,  no,  not  when  you're  with  me,  Mr.  John  ;  they're  afraid  of 
you.  But  when  I'm  by  myself,  the  woods  look  so  black,  I'm  afraid 
to  go  into  them." 

"Pretty  idiot!"  exclaimed  John  Hurdis,  for  it  was  he;  "but 
you're  not  afraid  now,  Jane  :  let  us  take  a  walk,  and  laugh  at 
these  bears.  They  will  not  stop  to  look  at  us  ;  and  if  they  do, 
all  we  have  to  do  fs  to  laugh  at  them  aloud,  and  they'll  be  sure 
to  run.  There's  no  danger  in  looking  at  them  when  they  run, 
you  know." 

"  No,  to  be  sure;  but,  Mr.  John  —  stop.  I  don't  know  whether 
I  ought  to  go  with  you  any  longer  ;  for  do  you  know  —  Here 

she  lowered  her  voice  to  a  whisper,  and  looked  cautiously  around  her 
as  she  spoke  —  "do  you  know  mother's  been  talking  to  dad  about 
you,  and  she  says  —  but  I  won't  tell  you." 

And,  with  a  playful  manner,  she  turned  from  him  as  she  fin 
ished  the  sentence,  and  proceeded  to  gather  up  the  flowers, 
which,  in  her  first  alarm,  she  had  scattered  all  around  her.  He 
stooped  to  assist  her,  and,  putting  his  arm  about  her  waist,  they 
walk  forward  into  the  wood,  the  silly  creature  all  the  while  re 
fusing  to  go,  yet  seeming  perfectly  unconscious  that  she  was 
even  then  complying  with  his  demand.  When  they  were  some 
what  concealed  within  its  recesses,  he  stopped,  and  with  some 
little  anxiety  demanded  to  know  what  it  was  that  her  mother 
had  said. 

"  I  won't  tell  you,  Mr.  John,  I  won't." 

He  knew  very  well  how  to  effect  his  purpose,  and  replied 
calmly  — 

"Well,  if  you  won't  tell  rno.  Jmr,  T  r-"I  call  the  bears — " 

"No,  don't!"  she  screamed  aloud;  "don't,  Mr.  John!  I'll 

5* 


106-  RICHARD    IIURDIS. 

tell  you  everything.  Did  you  think  I  wouldn't  tell  you,  Mr. 
John?  —  I  was  only  in  play.  Wait,  now,  till  I  pick  up  this 
little  pink  flower,  Mr.  John,  that's  got  the  yellow  drops  in  the 
bottom,  and  I'll  tell  you  all.  This  is  the  llowcr  that  you  read 
to  me,  Mr.  John:  do,  now  —  that's  a  good  dear  —  do  read  it  to 
me  now." 

"Not  now,  Jane  —  after  you  tell  me  about  your  mother." 

"  Yes  —  but,  Mr.  John,  would  you  set  the  bears  on  me  for  true  ?" 

"To  be  sure,  if  you  wouldn't  tell  me.  Come,  Jane,  be  quick,  or 
I'll  call  them." 

"No,  don't  —  don't,  I  beg  you!  I'm  sure  it's  nothing  so  great 
to  tell  you  ;  but  I  tell  you,  Mr.  John,  you  see,  because  mother 
didn't  want  you  to  know.  Dad  and  she  talked  out,  but  when  they 
thought  I  was  awake,  Oh,  then  there  was  no  more  talk  for  a  while  ; 
but  I  heard  them  all." 

"  All  what,  Jane  ?  " 

"Oh,  don't  you  know?"  All  about  you  and  dad,  and  Mr. 
Richard,  and  how  you  hate  Mr.  Richard,  and  how  dad  is  to 
shoot  him — " 

"The  d  —  1!  you  didn't  hear  that,  Jane!"  was  the  exclama 
tion  of  the  thunderstruck  criminal  ;  his  voice  thick  with  appre 
hension,  his  limbs  trembling,  his  flesn  shrinking  and  shivering,  and 
his  eyes,  full  of  wonder  and  affright,  absolutely  starting  from  the 
sockets.  So  sudden  had  been  the  revelation,  it  might  well  have 
startled  or  stunned  a  much  bolder  spirit  than  was  his.  He  led, 
almost  dragged  her,  still  deeper  into  the  woods,  as  if  he  dreaded  the 
heedful  ears  of  any  passing  traveler. 

"What  have  you  heard,  Jane?  what  more  did  your  mother 
say  ?  She  surely  said  not  what  you  tell  me ;  how  could  she 
know  —  how  could  she  say  it?  She  did  not  say  it,  Jane  —  she 
could  not." 

"Oh,  yes,  but  she  did  :  she  said  a  great  deal  more,  but  it's  no  use 
telling  you." 

"How  no  use  ?  Tell  me  all,  Jane.  Come,  my  pretty,  tell  me  all 
th°t  your  mother  said,  and  how  she  came  to  say  it.  Did  your  father 
say  it  to  her  first  ?  " 

"Who,  dad?  Lord  bless  you,  Mr.  John,  no!  Dad  never 
tells  mother  nothing,  and  what  she  knows  she  knows  by  herself 
without  him." 


THE   SILLY   JANE  107 

"Indeed!  But  this  about  Richard  and  your  father  —  you 
don't  mean  that  your  mother  knew  any  such  thing.  Your  father 
told  her  ;  you  heard  him  talking  to  her  about  it." 

"  No,  I  tell  you.  Father  wouldn't  talk  at  all;  it  was  mother  that 
talked  the  whole.  She  asked  dad,  and  dad  wouldn't  tell  her,  and  sc 
she  told  him." 

"Told  him  what?  did  she  hear?  " 

"  Yes,  she  told  him  as  how  you  loved  Miss  Mary;  but,  Mr.  John, 
it  isn't  true  you  love  Miss  Mary,  is  it?" 

"Pshaw!  Jane,  what  nonsense!  Go  on,  tell  me  about  your 
mother." 

"Well,  I  knew  it  couldn't  be  that  you  loved  Miss  Mary.  I 
don't  wan't  you  to  love  her.  She's  a  tine  lady,  and  a  sweet, 
good  lady,  but  I  don't  like  you  to  love  her;  it  don't  seem  right; 
and  — 

The  impatient,  anxious  spirit  of  John  ITurdis  could  no  longer 
brook  the  tritling  of  the  idiot,  which,  at  another  period,  and  with 
a  mind  less  excited  and  apprehensive,  he  would  rather  have  encour 
aged  than  rebuked;  but  now,  chafing  with  excited  feelings  and 
roused  fears,  he  did  not  scruple  to  interrupt  her. 

"  Nonsense,  Jane  —  nonsense!  Say  no  more  of  Mary,  but  tell  me 
of  your  mother.  Tell  me  how  she  began  to  speak  to  your  father  — 
what  she  said  —  what  she  knows — and  we'll  talk  of  Miss  Mary  and 
other  matters  afterward.  What  did  she  say  of  Richard?  what  of 
me,  and  this  shooting  of  your  father?" 

"Oh,  she  didn't  say  about  shooting  dad;  no,  no,  it  was  Mr. 
Richard  that  he  was  to  slioot." 

"Well,  well  — tell  me  that  — that!  " 

"Oh,  dear  me,  Mr.  John,  what  a  flurry  you're  in!  I'm  sure  I 
can't  tell  you  anything  when  you  look  so.  You  frighten  me  too 
much  ;  don't  look  so,  Mr.  John,  if  you  please." 

The  criminal  tried  to  subdue  the  appearance  of  anxiety  and 
terror  which  the  girl's  countenance  and  manner  sufficiently  assured 
him  must  be  evident  in  his  own.  He  turned  from  her  for  an 
instant,  moved  twice  or  thrice  around  a  tree — she  meanwhile 
watching  his  proceedings  with  a  degree  of  curiosity  that  made 
her  forget  her  fears  —  then  returning,  with  a  brow  somewhat 
smoothed,  and  a  half-smile  upon  his  lips,  he  succeeded  in  per 
suading  her  to  resume  a  narrative  which  her  natural  imbe- 


RICHARD   HURDIS. 

cility  of  mind,  at  no  period,  would  have  enabled  her  to  give  con 
secutively.  B}r  questions  carefully  put,  and  at  the  proper  moment, 
he  at  length  got  from  her  the  whole  amount  of  her  knowledge,  and 
learned  enough  to  conclude,  as  was  the  truth,  that  what  had  been 
said  by  the  mother  of  the  girl  had  been  said  conjecturally.  His 
fear  had  been  that  she  had  stolen  forth  on  the  previous  night,  and, 
secreting  herself  near  the  place  of  conference  between  Pickett  and 
himself,  had  witnessed  the  interview,  and  comprehended  all  its 
terms.  However  relieved  from  his  fear  by  the  revelation  of  the 
idiot,  he  wTas  still  not  a  little  annoj^ed  by  the  close  guessing  of  the 
woman.  A  mind  so  acute,  so  penetrating,  so  able  to  search  into  the 
bosom,  and  watch  its  secret  desires  without  the  help  of  words,  was 
able  to  effect  yet  more ;  and  he  dreaded  its  increased  activity 
in  the  present  business.  Vagije  apprehensions  still  floated  in  his 
soul,  though  he  strove  to  dissipate  them,  and  he  felt  a  degree  of 
insecurity  which  made  him  half-forgetful  of  his  simple  and  scarcely 
conscious  companion.  She,  meanwhile,  dwelt  upon  the  affair 
which  she  had  narrated,  with  a  tenacity  as  strange  as  had  been 
her  former  reluctance  or  indifference,  until,  at  length,  she  repeated 
her  mother's  unfavorable  opinion  of  himself,  his  disquiet  got  the 
better  of  his  courtesy,  for  he  exclaimed  aloud  :  — 

"No  more  of  this  nonsense,  Jane!  Your  mother's  a  fool,  and 
the  best  thing  she  can  do  hereafter  is  to  keep  her  tongue." 

"No,  no,  Mr.  John!"  replied  the  girl,  earnestly,  "mother's  no 
fool,  Mr.  John;  it's  Jane  that's  a  fool.  Everybody  calls  Jane  a  fool, 
but  nobody  calls  mother  so." 

"  I  don't  call  you  so,  Jane,"  said  Hurdis  kindly,  sitting  beside 
her  as  he  spoke,  and  putting  his  arm  about  her  waist. 

"No,  Mr.  John,  I  know  you  don't,  and" — in  a  whisper  — 
"I'd  like  you  to  tell  me,  Mr.  John,  why  other  people  call  me  so. 
I'm  a  big  girl,  and  I  can  run,  and  walk,  and  ride  like  other  people. 
I  can  spin  and  I  can  sew.  I  help  mother  plant  potatoes,  I  can 
break  the  corn,  hull  it  and  measure  it,  and  can  do  a  hundred 
things  besides.  I  talk  like  other  people;  and  did  you  ever  see 
a  body  pick  flowers,  and  such  pretty  ones,  faster  than  me,  Mr. 
John?" 

"No,  Jane,  I  never  did." 

(<And  such  pretty    ones,   tow,   Mr.   John!    Look  at  this  little 


THE   SILLY   JANE.  109 

pink  one,  with  the  yellow  drops.  Come,  read  it  to  me  now,  Mr. 
John,  and  show  me  how  to  read  it  like  you." 

' '  Not  now,  Jane  —  some  other  time.  Give  me  a  kiss,  now  —  a 
sweet  kiss! " 

"  Well,  there,  nobody  asks  me  to  kiss  but  you  and  Miss  Mary 
sometimes  Mr.  John.  Sometimes  I  kiss  mother,  but  she  don't  seem 
to  like.  I  wonder  why,  Mr.  John  —  it  must  be  because  I'm  a  fool." 

"No,  no,  Jane,  you're  not  a  fool." 

"  I  wish  I  wasn't,  Mr.  John —  I  don't  think  I  am;  for,  you  know, 
I  told  you  how  many  things  I  can  do  just  like  other  people," 

"Yes,  Jane,  and  you  have  a  sweeter  little  mouth  than  anybody. 
You  kiss  like  a  little  angel,  and  your  cheeks  are  as  rosy  — 

"Oh,  don't,  Mr.  John,!  that's  enough.  Lord,  if  mother  was  only 
to  see  us  now,  what  would  she  say?  Tell  me,  Mr.  John,  why  don't 
I  want  mother  to  sec  me  when  you're  so  good  to  me?  And  when  you 
kiss  me  so,  what  makes  me  afraid  and  tremble?  It  is  strange,  Mr. 
John!" 

"  It's  because  your  mother's  cross  to  you,  and  cold,  and  gets 
vexed  with  you  so  often,  Jane." 

"  Do  you  think  so,  Mr.  John?  But,  it  can't  be;  mother  isn't  cross 
to  me,  Mr.  John,  and  she  hasn't  whipped  me  I  don't  know  the  day 
when.  She  don't  know  that  you  walked  with  me  into  the  woods, 
Mr.  John:  why  don't  I  want  to  tell  her  —  it's  so  very  strange?  She 
would  be  mighty  vexed  if  she  was  to  see  me  now." 

Hurdis  answered  her  with  a  kiss;  and  in  the  next  instant  the  tread 
of  a  sudden  footstep  behind  them,  and  the  utterance  of  a  single  word 
by  the  intruder,  caused  the  simple  girl  to  scream  out,  and  to  leap  like 
an  affrighted  deer  from  the  arms  that  embraced  her, 


tlO  RICHARD    HURDll. 


CHAPTER   X  v. 

THE    :•  PRONG    MOTHER. 

Afedea.  I  thought  as  inuch  when  first  from  thick  eai  '•»>*» 
f  »aw  you  trudging  in  such  posting  pace. 
T3ut  to  the  purpose  .  what  may  be  the  cause 
Uf  this  most  strange  and  sudden  banishment! 

Fausta.  The  cause,  ask  you  ?  a  simple  cause,  God  woi 
TvA*as  neither  treason,  nor  yet,  felony, 
But  for  because  I  blamed  his  foolishness. 

Medea.  I  hear  you  say  so,  but  I  greatly  fear, 
Ere  that  your  tale  be  brought  unto  an  end, 
You'll  prove  yourself  the  author  of  the  same. 
But  pray,  be  brief;  what  folly  did  your  spouse, 
And  how  will  you  revenge  your  wrong  on  him  f 

ROBERT  GREENE. 

HER  fear  seemed  to  possess  the  power  of  a  sr«.!l  to  produce 
the  very  person  whose  presence  she  most  dreaded.  As  if  in 
compliance  with  its  summons,  her  mother  stood  before  her. 
Her  tall,  majestic  form,  raised  to  its  fullest  height  by  the  fevor 
01  indignation  in  her  mind,  stood  between  her  idiot  daughto* 
and  the  astounded  John  Hurdis.  Ue  had  sprung  to  his  feet  on 
the  instant  when  Jane,  in  terror,  Imd  started  from  his  embrace, 
and,  without  daring  to  face  the  woman,  he  stood  fixed  to  the 
spot  where  she  first  confronted  him.  Her  meager,  usually  pale 
and  severe  features,  were  now  crimsoned  with  indignation;  her 
eyes  flashed  a  fire  of  feeling  and  of  character  which  lifted  her, 
however  poor  and  lowly  had  been  her  birth  and  was  her  station, 
immeasurably  above  the  base  creature  whose  superior  wealth 
Lad  furnished  the  facilities,  and,  too  frequently  in  the  minds  of 
men,  provide  a  sanction,  for  the  vilest  abuses  oi  the  dependence 
and  inferiority  of  the  poor  The  consciousness  of  wrong  in  his 
mind  totally  deprived  him  \t  that  instant  of  those  resources  of 


THE  STRONG  MOTHER.  Ill 

audacity  with  which  he  who  meditates  villany  should  alwayi 
be  well  supplied ;  and,  woman  as  she  was — poor,  old,  and  with 
out  character  and  command,  as  was  the  wife  of  the  worthless 
Pickett — the  sound  of  her  voice  went  through  the  frame  of 
Hurdis  with  a  keenness  that  made  him  quiver.  And  yet  the 
tones  were  gentle ;  they  were  studiously  subdued,  and  from  this 
cause,  indeed,  their  influence  was  mos/  probably  increased  upon 
both  Hurdis  and  the  daughter  :  — 

''Jane,  my  child,  go  home — go  home !" 

These  were  words  not  to  be  disobeyed  by  the  trembling  and 
weeping  idiot.  Yet  she  looked  and  lingered ;  she  fain  would 
have  disobeyed  them  for  the  first  time ;  but  the  bony  and  long 
finger  of  the  mother  was  uplifted,  and  simply  pointed  in  the 
direction  of  their  cottage,  which  was  not  visible  from  the  point 
»n  which  they  stood.  Slowly  at  first  —  then,  after  she  had  ad 
vanced  a  few  paces,  bounding  off  with  the  rapidity  of  fear — th* 
girl  hurried  away,  and  was  soon  lost  to  the  sight  of  the  two 
remaining  persons. 

When  satisfied  that  she  was  uo  longer  within  sound  of  their 
voices,  for  her  keen  eye  had  followed  all  the  while  the  retreat- 
ing  footsteps  of  the  maiden,  she  turned  the  entire  force  of  its 
now-voluminous  expression  upon  the  man  before  her.  Her 
gray  eyebrows,  which  were  thick,  were  brought  down,  by  the 
muscular  compression  of  the  skin  of  the  forehead,  into  a  com 
plete  penthouse  above  her  eyes,  and  served  to  concentrate  their 
rays,  which  shot  forth  like  summer  lightning  from  the  sable 
cloud !  The  lips  were  compressed  with  a  smiling  scorn,  her 
whole  face  partaking  of  the  same  contemptuous  and  withering 
expression.  John  Hurdis  stole  but  a  single  glance  at  the  fea 
tures  which  were  also  full  of  accusation,  and,  without  looking  a 
second  time,  turned  uneasily  away.  But  the  woman  did  not 
mffer  him  to  escape.  She  drew  nigher — she  called  him  by 
riame ;  and,  though  she  spoke  in  low  and  quiet  tones,  they  were 
yet  such  that  he  did  not  venture  to  persist  in  his  movement, 
which  seemed  to  threaten  as  prompt  and  rapid  a  departure  as 
that  of  the  idiot.  Her  words  began,  abruptly  enough,  with  one 
of  the  subjects  nearest  to  her  heart.  She  was  not  a  woman  to 
trifle.  The  woods  in  which  she  had  lived,  and  their  obscu 
rity,  had  taught  lessons  of  taciturnity ;  and  :t  was,  therefore, 


112  KICUARD    flURDIB. 

in  the  fullness  of  her  heart  ouly  that  she  suffeied  hei  lips  te 
speak. 

"And  wherefore  is  it,"  she  demanded,  "  that  Mr.  Hurdis  takes 
such  pains  to  bring  the  idiot  daughter  of  Ben  Pickett  into  these 
secret  places?  Why  do  these  woods,  which  are  so  wild  —  so 
little  beautiful  and  attractive  —  so  inferior  to  his  own  — why  do 
they  tempt  him  to  these  long  walks?  And  this  poor  child,  is  it 
that  he  so  pities  her  infirmity  —  which  everybody  should  pity  — 
that  he  seeks  her  for  a  constant  companion  in  these  woods, 
where  no  eye  may  watch  over  his  steps,  and  no  ear  hear  the 
language  which  is  uttered  in  her  own  ?  Explain  to  me  this,  I 
pray  you,  Mr.  Huruir>.  "Why  is  it  that  these  woods  are  so  much 
more  agreeable  to  you  than  your  father's  or  'Squire  Easterby's  ? 
and  why  a  gentleman,  who  makes  bold  to  love  Alary  Easterby, 
and  who  values  her  sense  and  smartness,  can  be  content  with  the 
idle  talk  of  an  unhappy  child  like  mine  ?  Tell  me  what  it 
means,  1  entreat  you,  Mr.  Hurdis;  for  in  truth  —  supposing  that 
you  mean  rightly  —  it  is  all  a  mystery  to  me." 

The  very  meekness  of  the  woman's  manner  helped  to  increase 
the  annoyance  of  Hurdis.  It  was  too  little  offensive  to  find 
fault  with  ;  and  yet  the  measured  tones  of  her  voice  had  in  them 
so  much  that  was  bitter,  that  he  could  not  entirely  conceal  from 
her  that  he  felt  it.  His  reply  was  such  &s  might  have  been  ex 
pected :  — 

"  Why,  Mrs.  Pickett,  I  meant  no  harm,  to  be  sure.  As  for 
the  woods,  they  are  quiet  and  pretty  "nough  for  me  ;  and  though 
it  is  true  that  my  own  or  Mr.  Easterby's  are  quite  as  pretty, 
yet  that's  no  reason  one  should  be  confined  only  to  them.  1 
like  to  ramble  elsewhere,  by  way  of  change ;  and  to-day,  you 
see,  happening  to  ?°e  your  daughter  as  I  rambled,  I  only  joined 
her,  and  we  walked  together ;  that's  all." 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  say,  Mr.  Hurdis,  that  you  have  never 
before  joined  Jane  Pickett  in  these  walks?" 

"To  be  sure  not  —  no — " 

"Ha!" 

"Yes  —  that's  to  say,  I  don't  make  a  practice  of  it.  1  maj 
have  walked  with  her  here  once  or  it  may  be  twice  before,  Mrs. 
Pickett—" 

**Ay,  sir.  twice,  thrice,  and  a  half-dozen  times  if  the  truth  is 


THE   STRONG   MOTHER.  113 

to  be  told!"  exclaimed  the  woman  vehemently.  "I  have  seen 
you,  sir,  thrice  myself,  and  watched  your  footsteps,  and  heard 
your  words  —  words  cunningly  devised,  sir,  to  work  upon  the 
simple  feelings  of  that  poor  ignorant,  whose  very  feebleness 
should  commend  her  to  the  protection,  not  the  abuse,  of  a  noble- 
minded  man.  Deny  it,  sir,  if  you  dare  !  I  tell  you  here,  in  the 
presence  of  the  eternal  God,  that  I  have  heard  and  seen  you 
walk  secretly  in  this  wood  with  Jane  Pickett  more  than  three 
several  times  — nay,  more,  sir,  you  have  enticed  her  into  it  by 
various  arts ;  and  have  abused  her  ignorance  by  speaking  to 
her  in  language  unuecoming  in  a  gentleman  to  speak,  and  still 
more  unbecoming  in  a  female  to  hear.  I  have  seen  you,  and 
heard  you,  sir,  with  my  own  eyes  and  ears;  and  that  yen  have 
not  done  worse,  sir,  is  perhaps  only  owing  to  her  ignorance  of 
your  meaning. " 

"You,  at  least,  would  have  known  better,  Mrs.  Pickett,"  re 
plied  Hurdis  with  a  sneer  — the  discovery  of  the  woman  being 
too  obviously  complete  to  leave  him  any  hope  from  evasion. 

"Your  sneer  falls  harmlessly  upon  my  mind,  Mr.  Hurdis.  I 
am  too  poor,  and  too  much  of  a  mother,  sir,  to  be  provoked  by 
that.  It  only  shows  you  to  me  in  a  somewhat  bolder  point  of 
view  than  I  had  been  accustomed  to  regard  you.  I  knew  well 
enough  your  character,  when  I  watched  you  in  your  walks  with 
my  child,  and  heard  the  language  which  you  used  in  her  ears — ' 

"Certainly  a  very  commendable  and  honorable  employment, 
Mrs.  Pickett  !  I  give  you  credit  for  it." 

"Ay,  sir,  both  proper  and  commendable  when  employed  as 
a  precaution  against  those  whose  designs  are  known  to  be  im 
proper,  and  whose  character  is  without  honor.  I  well  enough 
understand  your  meaning.  It  was  scarcely  honorable,  you  would 
fay,  that  I  should  place  myself  as  a  spy  upon  your  conduct,  and 
become  an  eavesdropper  to  possess  myself  of  your  counsels. 
These  are  fashions  of  opinion,  sir,  which  have  no  effect  upon  me. 
I  am  a  mother,  and  I  was  watching  over  the  safety  of  a  frail 
and  feeble  child,  who — God  help  her  that  made  her  so!—  was 
too  little  able  to  take  care  of  herself  not  to  render  it  needful 
that  I  should  do  so.  It  was  a  mother's  eye  that  watched  — 
not  you,  sir,  but  her  child  ;  it  was  a  mother's  car  that  sought  to 
know  —  not  the  words  which  were  spoken  by  John  Hurdis,  but 


114  RICHARD 

all  words,  no  matter  of  whom,  which  were  poured  into  the  ears 
of  her  child.  I  watched  not  you,  but  her ;  and  learn  from  me 
now,  sir,  that  you  never  whistled  her  from  our  cabin  that  my 
ears  caught  not  the  signal  as  readily  as  hers  —  she  never  stole 
forth  at  your  summons,  but  my  feet  as  promptly  followed  hers. 
Do  you  wonder  now  that  I  should  know  you  as  I  do  ?  Ah,  Mr. 
Hurdis,  does  it  not  shame  you  to  the  heart  to  think  that  you 
have  schemed  so  long,  with  all  the  arts  of  a  cunning  man,  foi 
the  ruin  of  a  feeble  idiot  scarcely  sixteen  years  of  age  ? " 

" 'Tis  false!"  exclaimed  John  Hurdis,  hoarse  with  passion; 
"  I  tell  you,  woman,  'tis  false,  what  you  say  !  I  had  no  such 
design." 

"Tis  true,  before  Heaven  that  hears  us,  Mr.  Hurdis;  I  say 
it  is  true,"  replied  the  woman  in  moderate  tones.  "You  may 
deny  it  as  you  please,  sir,  but  you  can  neither  deceive  Heaven 
nor  me,  and  to  us  your  denial  must  be  unavailing.  I  could  not 
mistake  nor  misunderstand  your  arts  and  language.  You  have 
striven  to  teach  Jane  Pickett  an  idea  of  sin,  and  perhaps  you 
have  not  succeeded  in  doing  so  only  because  nobody  yet  has 
been  able  to  teach  her  any  idea  —  eveu  one  of  virtue.  But  it 
was  not  only  her  mind  that  you  strove  to  inform.  You  have 
appealed  to  the  blood  and  to  the  passion  of  the  child,  and,  but 
for  the  mother  that  watched  over  her,  you  might  have  succeeded 
at  last  in  your  bad  purposes.  O  John  Hurdis,  if  Ben  Pickett 
could  only  know,  what,  for  the  sake  of  peace,  and  to  avoid 
bloodshed,  I  have  kept  to  myself,  he  would  have  thrust  his  knife 
into  your  throat  long  before  this !  I  could  have  stopped  you  in 
your  pursuit  of  my  child,  by  a  wrord  to  her  father  ;  for,  low  and 
poor  as  he  is,  and  bas&  as  you  may  think  you  have  made  him, 
he  has  pride  enough  to  }Tct  avenge  our  dishonor.  I  have  kept 
back  what  I  had  to  say  to  this  moment ;  and  now  I  tell  you, 
and  you  only,  what  I  do  know  —  it  will  be  for  yourself  to  say 
whether  Ben  Pickett  shall  ever  know  it." 

"Pshaw,  woman!  you  talk  nonsense;  and,  but  that  you  arc 
a  woman,  I  could  be  very  angry  with  you.  As  for  doing  any 
thing  improper  with  Jane  Pickett,  I  sv»rear — " 

"No,  do  not  swear;  for  if  }*ou  do,  John  Hurdis  —  if  you 
dare  swear  that  you  had  no  such  design  —  I  will  swear  that  you 
belie  yourself  —  that  your  oath  is  false  before  Heaven  —  and  that 


THE   STRONG    MOTHER.  115 

you  are  as  Mack-hearted  and  perjured  as  I  hold  you  base  and 
cowardly  !  And  if  you  did  SAVOM-,  of  what  use  would  be  your 
oath?  Could  you  hope  to  make  me  believe  you  after  my  own 
oath?  could  you  hope  to  deceive  Heaven?  Who  else  is  here 
to  listen  ?  Keep  your  false  oath  for  other  witnesses,  John  Hur- 
dis,  who  are  more  blind  and  deaf  than  I  am  and  more  easily 
deceived  than  the  God  who  alone  sees  us  new." 

"  Mrs.  Pickctt,  you  are  a  very  singular  woman.  I  don't  know 
what  to  make  of  you." 

The  manner  of  the  woman  had  absolutely  quelled  the  base 
spirit  of  the  man.  When  he  spoke  thus,  he  literally  knew  not 
what  he  said. 

"  You  shall  know  more  of  me,  Mr.  Ilurdis,  before  I  have 
done,"  was  her  reply.  "My  feelings  on  the  subject  of  my  child 
have  almost  made  me  forget  some  other  mntters  upon  which  I* 
have  sought  to  speak  with  you.  You  questioned  my  child  upon 
the  subject  of  a  conversation  between  her  tether  and  myself 
She  told  you  that  we  spoke  of  you." 

"Yes,  I  think  I  remember,"  lie  .said  breathlessly,  and  with 
feeble  utterance. 

"You  do  remember  —  you  must,"  said  the  woman.  "You 
were  very  anxious  to  get  the  truth  from  my  child  :  you  shall 
hear  it  all  from  me.  You  have  sent  Ben  Pickott  upon  your 
business." 

"  lie  will  not  tell  you  that,"  said  Ilurdis. 

"  Perhaps  not ;   but  1  know  it." 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ?" 

"  Dare  you  tell  ?  No  !  and  he  dare  not.  The  husband  may 
aot  show  to  his  own  wife  the  business  upon  which  he  goes. 
There  is  something  wrong  in  it,  and  it  is  your  business." 

"  It  is  not ;  he  goes,  if  he  goes  at  all,  upon  his  own,  not  mine. 
I  do  not  employ  him." 

"  You  do.  Beware,  John  Ilurdis  !  you  are  not  half  so  secure 
as  you  pretend,  and  perhaps  think  yourself.  The  eyes  that 
watch  the  footsteps  of  a  weak  and  idiot  child,  will  not  be  the 
less  heedful  of  those  of  a  weak  and  erring  husband.  If  Ben 
Pickctt  goes  to  do  wrong,  he  goes  upon  your  business.  If  wrong 
is  done,  and  is  traced  to  him,  believe  me  —  for  I  swear  it — I 
will  perish  in  the  attempt,  but  I  will  trace  it  home  to  its  pro- 


H6  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

jector  and  proprietor  !  You  are  not,  and  yon  shall  not  be,  safe. 
I  have  my  suspicions." 

"  What  suspicions  ?  I  defy  you  to  say  I  have  anything  to 
Jo  with  your  husband." 

The  boldness  of  John  Hnrdis  was  all  assumed,  and  the  veil 
•vas  readily  seen  through  by  the  keen-sighted  woman. 

'  I  will  confirm  to  your  own  ears  tht,  intelligence  which  you 
procured  from  my  chHd.  It  was  base  in  me  to  follow  and  to 
watch  over  her  safety  :  it  was  not  base  in  you  to  pick  from  her 
thoughtless  lips  the  secrets  of  her  parents,  and  the  private  con 
versation  of  her  household  !  I  will  not  ask  you  to  define  the  dis 
tinction  between  the  two.  She  told  you  the  truth.  I  suspected 
that  you  were  using  Ben  Pickett  to  do  the  villany  which  you 
uad  the  soul  to  conceive,  but  not  to  execute.  I  know  some  vil- 
lanies  on  which  you  have  before  employed  him." 

"  What  villanies  mean  you  ?"  he  demanded  anxiously. 

"No  matter  now  —  I  may  find  them  of  more  use  to  me  some 
kjture  day  than  now.  I  will  tell  you  now  what  were  my  fears 
—  my  suspicions  —  when  you  came  to  our  cabin  the  last  night, 
and  carried  Ben  Pickett  with  you  into  the  woods — " 

"You  folio  wed  us?  You  heard — you  listened  to  what  was 
said  between  us  ?"  was  the  hurried  speech  of  Hurdis,  his  appre 
hensions  denoted  in  his  tremulous  and  broken  utterance,  in  the 
startling  glare  of  his  eyes,  and  the  universal  pallor  of  his  whole 
countenance.  A  smile  of  scorn  played  upon  the  lips  of  the  wo 
man —  she  felt  her  superiority.  She  spoke,  after  a  moment's 
p?,use,  during  which  the  scorn  of  her  face  changed  into  sorrow : 

"  Your  cheek  betrays  you,  John  Hurdis,  and  confirms  my 
worst  fears.  I  would  that  you  had  been  more  bold.  I  would 
have  given  much  to  have  seen  you  more  indifferent  to  my  an 
swer.  Could  you  defy  me  now,  as  you  did  but  a  little  while 
ago,  I  should  sleep  much  easier  to-night.  But  now  I  tremble 
quite  as  much  as  you.  I  feel  that  all  my  doubts  are  true.  I 
would  have  forgiven  you  your  meditated  wrong  to  my  child 
could  you  have  looked  and  spoken  differently." 

"God  of  heaven,  woman!"  exclaimed  John  Hurdis,  with  a 
fc.v*m£  of  JOnperatiou  \ii  hr a  voice  xnd  man.  »c»  "  what  n»  4iu** 
you  \:«an?  Speak  out  sue!  >,11  me  ah  --say  the  worst  —  what 
\*  it  th«u  you  knew  1  what  is  ir  you  believe  ?  Did  you  or  did 


THE   STRONG   MOTHER.  117 

/ou  not  follow  us  List  night?  did  you  hear  my  conference  with 
your  husband  ?" 

"I  did  not!" 

llurdis  was  relieved  by  the  answer.  He  breathed  freely  once 
more,  as  he  replied  — 

"  Ha  !  say  no  more,  then  ;  I  do  not  care  to  hear  you  now.  1 
have  had  wind  and  fury  enough." 

"  lrou  must  hear  me.     I  will  tell  you  now  what  I  believe." 

"  I  will  not  hear  you.  Let  me  go  !  I  have  heard  enough 
What  is  your  belief  to  me  ?" 

He  would  have  passed  her,  but  she  caught  his  arm. 

"  You  shall  —  but  for  one  moment/' 

He  paused,  and,  like  an  impatient  steed  beneath  a  curb  which 
Chafes  him,  and  fvom  which  he  can  r»':t  break  away,  John  Hiir- 
dis  fvirncd  in  he  ^r^-p,  revolvir;.  <.  LL  /he  same  ground  while 
she  spoke,  air7  /  'vmg  not  tf  hear  the  language  which  yet 
ibrccd  .tself  u.  -  ^iis  senses. 

I  r.ciicv  j,  ,  ohn  llurdis,  that  yoi1  T|ave  sent  my  husband  tc 
do  »v»ine  violence.  He  denins  it,  ma  -;tve  striven  to  believe 
him,  but  I  can  not.  Since  he  has  left  \ne,  I  find  my  suspicions 
return  ;  and  they  take  a  certain  shape  to  my  mind,  the  more  I 
think  of  them.  I  believe  that  you  have  sent  him  against  yoir 
own  brother,  whom  you  both  hate  and  fear — 

"Woman  —  you  lie!" 

He  broke  away  from  her  grasp,  but  lingered. 

"  1  will  not  call  you  man,  John  llurdis;  but  I  will  not  think 
unkindly  of  you,  if  it  bo,  as  you  say,  that  I  lie.  God  grant  that 
my  fears  be  false  !  But.  believing  what  I  say  —  that  you  have 
despatched  my  husband  to  do  a  crime  cvhich  you  dare  not  do 
yom.-'olf —  I  toll  you  that  if  it  be  done — " 

"lie  will  be  the  criminal  !"  said  llurdis,  in  low  but  emphatic 
tones,  as  he  turned  from  her  ;  "  he  will  be  the  criminal,  and,  if 
detected  —  if,  as  you  think,  lie  lias  gono  to  commit  crime,  and 
such  a  crime  —  the  gallows,  woman,  will  be  the  penalty,  and  it 
may  be  that  your  hand  will  guide  him  to  it." 

The  woman  shrank  back,  and  shivered;  but  only  for  an  in 
stant.  Recovering,  she  advanced  :  — 

44  Not  my  hand,  John  Hurdis,  but  yours,  if  any.  But  let  that 
day  come  no  matter  whose  hand  shall  jonde  Ben  Pickett  to 


118  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

such  a  doom,  I  tell  you,  John  Html  is,  he  shall  have  coi.ipany 
You  are  rich,  John  Hurdis,  and  I  am  poor ;  but  know  from  me 
that  there  is  energy  and  resolution  enough  in  this  withered 
bosom  to  follow  you  in  all  your  secret  machinations,  to  trace 
your  steps  in  any  forests,  and  1 ,  bring  you  to  the  same  punish 
inent,  or  a  worse,  than  that  which  you  bring  on  him  !  I  am 
poor  and  old :  men  scorn  me,  and  my  own  sex  turns  away,  and. 
sickening  at  my  poverty,  forget  for  a  while  that  they  are  human, 
in  ceasing  to  believe  me  so.  But  the  very  scorn  of  mankind  will 
strengthen  me;  and  when  I  am  alone  —  when  the  weak  man 
whom  you  entice  with  your  money  to  do  the  deed  from  which 
you  shrink,  becomes  your' victim  —  beware  of  me;  for  so  surely 
as  there  is  a  God  in  heaven,  he  will  help  me  to  find  the  evi 
dence  which  shall  bring  you  to  punishment  on  earth !" 

"The  woman  is  a  fiend  —  a  very  devil  !"  cried  Hurdis,  as  he 
rushed  from  the  strong  and  resolute  spirit  before  him.  Her  tall 
'orm  was  lifted  beyond  her  ordinary  height  as  she  spoke,  and 
he  shrank  from  the  intense  fire  that  shot  through  her  long,  gray 
eyebrows.  "I  would  sooner  face  the  devil!"  he  muttered,  as 
he  fled.  "  There's  something  speaks  in  her  that  I  fear.  Curse 
the  chance,  but  it  is  terrible  to  have  such  an  enemy,  and  to  feel 
that  one  is  doing  wrong  !" 

He  looked  back  but  onto  ere  he  left  the  forest,  and  her  eyes 
were  still  fixed  upon  him.  He  ventured  no  second  glance;  but. 
annoyed  with  a  thousand  apprehensions,  to  which  the  interview 
had  given  existence,  he  hurried  homeward  like  one  pu:sue>l-~ 
pt  "-ting  at  every  sound  in  the  woods,  though  it  were  3nlj  the 
{  V~;?.g  of  a  leaf  in  the  sudden  gust  of  November. 


THE  TBATELLERS  FALL  AMOXG  THIEVES.  119 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  TRAVELLERS  FALL  AMONG  THIEVES. 

"  You  must  eat  men.    Yet  thanks,  I  must  you  con, 
That  you  are  thieves  professed ;  that  you  work  not 
In  holier  shapes;  for  there  is  boundless  theft 
In  limited  professions.    Rascal  thieves, 
Here's  g-old."— Timun  of  Athens. 

"  So  I  leave  you 

To  the  protection  of  the  prosperous  gods, 
As  thieves  to  keepers."— •  [bid. 

IN  the  meanwhile,  Ben  Picket!,  moved  with  no  such  consid 
erations  as  those  which  touched  his  wife,  set  forth  in  pursuit  of 
his  destined  victim.  His  footsteps  I  may  not  pursue  at  present. 
It  will  be  enough  that  I  detail  my  own  progress.  The  reader 
has  already  seen  that  I  arrived  safely  at  Tuscaloosa.  How  I 
came  to  escape  him  so  far,  I  can  not  say;  since,  allowing  that 
he  pursued  me  with  even  moderate  avidity,  he  must  have  over 
taken  me  if  he  had  so  purposed  it.  But,  it  is  believed,  that  he 
mistook  my  route.  He  believed  that  I  had  struck  directly  for 
the  river,  on  my  nearest  path  to  Chochuma.  He  had  no  knowl 
edge  of  my  companion's  business  in  Tuscaloosa;  and  John  Hur- 
dis,  being  equally  ignorant  on  that  subject,  could  not  counsel 
him.  Whatever  may  have  been  the  cause  of  my  escape  so  far, 
from  a  foe  whose  aim  was  certain,  and  who  had  overcome  all 
scruples  of  policy  or  conscience  — if,  indeed  he  ever  held  them 
—  I  had  reason  for  congratulating  myself  upon  my  own  good 
fortune,  which  had  availed  for  my  protection  against  his  murder 
ous  purpose.  But,  conscious  of  no  evil  then,  and  wholly  ignorant 
of  the  danger  I  had  thus  escaped,  I  gave  myself  no  concern 
against  the  future;  and  with  all  the  buoyant  recklessness  of 
youth,  pleased  with  novelty,  and  with  faces  turned  for  a  new 


RICHARD   HUBDIS. 

ray  companion  and  myself  entered  our  strange  lodgings 
In  Tuscaloosa,  with  feelings  of  satisfaction  amounting  to  enthu 
siasm. 

The  town  was  little  more  than  hewn  out  of  the  woods.  Piles 
of  brick  and  timber  crowded  the  main,  indeed  the  only  street  of 
the  place,  and  denoted  the  rawness  and  poverty  of  the  region  in 
all  things  which  could  please  the  eye,  and  minister  to  the  taste 
of  the  traveller.  But  it  had  other  resources  in  my  sight.  The 
very  incompleteness,  and  rude  want  of  finish,  indicated  the  fer 
menting  character  of  life.  The  stagnation  of  the  forests  was 
disturbed.  The  green  and  sluggish  waters  of  its  inactivity 
were  drained  off  into  new  channels  of  enterprise  and  effort. 
Life  had  opened  upon  it;  its  veins  were  filling  fast  with  the 
life-blood  of  human  greatness ;  active  and  sleepless  endeavors 
and  a  warm  sun,  seemed  pouring  down  its  rays  for  the  first  time 
upon  the  cold  and  covered  bosom  of  its  swamps  and  caverns. 

To  the  young,  it  matters  not  the  roughness  and  the  storm. 
Enthusiasm  loves  the  encounter  with  biting  winds,  and  active 
opposition;  but  there  is  death  in  inaction — death  in  the  slug 
gish  torpor  of  the  old  community,  where  ancient  drones,  like 
the  old  man  of  the  sea  on  the  shoulders  of  Sinbad,  keep  down 
the  choice  spirit  of  a  country,  and  chill  and  palsy  all  its  ener 
gies.  There  was  more  meaning  in  the  vote  of  the  countryman 
who  ostracised  Aristides,  because  he  hated  to  hear  him  contin 
ually  called  "  the  Just,"  than  is  altogether  visible  to  the  under 
standing.  The  customary  names  of  a  country  are  very  apt  to 
become  its  tyrants. 

Our  lodging-house  was  poor  enough,  but  by  no  means  want 
ing  in  pretension.  You  would  vainly  look  for  it  now  in  Tusca 
loosa.  It  has  given  way  to  more  spacious  and  better  conducted 
establishments.  When  we  arrived  it  was  filled  to  overflowing, 
and,  much  against  our  will,  we  were  assigned  a  chamber  in  com 
mon  with  two  other  persons,  who  were  strangers  to  us.  To  this 
arrangement  we  vainly  opposed  all  manner  of  objections.  We 
were  compelled  to  submit.  Our  landlord  was  a  turbulent  sort 
of  savage,  who  bore  down  all  opposition,  and  held  to  his  laws, 
which  were  not  often  consistent  with  one  another,  with  as  hardy 
a  tenacity  as  did  the  Medes  and  Persians.  The  long  and  short 
of  it  was  that  we  must  share  our  chamber  with  two  other  men, 


THE   TRAVELLERS   FALL    AMONG   THIEVES.  121 

or  seek  lodgings  elsewhere.  This,  in  a  strange  town  where  no  other 
tavern  was  yet  dreamed  of,  was  little  else  than  a  downright  declara 
tion,  that  we  might  "go  to  the  d  —  1  and  shake  ourselves;"  and 
with'  whatever  grace  given,  we  were  compelled  to  take  the  accommo 
dations  us  they  were  accorded  to  us.  We  insisted  on  separate  beds, 
however,  and  here  we  gained  our  point. 

"  Ay,  you  may  have  two  a-piece,"  was  the  cold  and  ready  answer  ; 
"one  for  each  leg." 

Our  objections  to  a  chamber  in  connection  with  strangers,  did 
us  no  service  in  that  wild  community  ;  and  the  rough  adventu 
rers  about,  seemed  to  hold  us  in  no  fair  esteem  on  the  strength 
of  them.  But  they  saw  that  we  were  able  to  hold  our  own,  and 
that,  in  our  controversy  with  the  landlord,  though  we  had  been 
compelled  to  yield  our  point,  we  had  yet  given  him  quite  as 
good  as  he  sent;  and  so  they  suffered  their  contempt  to  escape 
in  winks  to  each  other,  and  muttered  sentences,  which,  as  we 
only  saw  and  heard  them  indistinctly,  we  were  wise  enough  to 
take  no  heed  of.  Not  that  we  did  not  feel  in  the  humor  to  do 
so.  My  comrade  iidgettcd  more  than  once  with  his  heavy- 
headed  whip-handle,  and  my  own  hand  felt  monstrously  disposed 
to  tap  the  landlord  on  his  crown  ;  but  it  was  too  obviously  our 
policy  to  forbear,  and  we  took  ourselves  off  to  our  chamber  as  soon 
as  we  could  beat  a  retreat  gracefully. 

Well  might  our  landlord  have  given  us  two  or  four  beds  each. 
There  were  no  less  than  twelve  in  the  one  apartment  which  had 
been  assigned  us.  We  chose  our  two,  getting  them  as  nigh  each 
other  as  possible ;  and  having  put  our  saddle-bags  in  a  corner 
behind  them,  and  got  our  dirks  and  pistols  in  readiness,  some  on 
the  table  and  some  under  our  pillows,  we  prepared  to  get  to 
bed  as  fast  as  possible.  Before  we  had  entirely  undressed, 
however,  our  two  other  occupants  of  the  chamber  appeared, 
,one  of  whom  we  remembered  to  have  seen  in  the  bar-room  be 
low,  at  the  time  of  our  discussion  with  the  landlord.  They 
were,  neither  of  them,  calculated  to  impress  me  favorably. 
They  were  evidently  too  fond  of  their  personal  appearance  to 
please  one  who  was  rather  apt  to  be  studiless  of  his.  They 
were  dandies — a  sort  of  New  York  dandies  —  men  with  long 
coats  and  steeple-crowned  hats,  great  breast-pins,  thick  gold 
chains,  and  a  big  bunch  of  seals  hanging  at  their  hips.  ' '  What 

6 


122  RICHARD   HUilDIS. 

the  deuce."  thought  1,  to  myself,  "brings  such  people  into  thin 
country?  S:_L'  gewgaws  are  not  only  in  bad  taste  anywhere, 
but  nowhere  i..  biich  bad  taste  as  in  a  wild  and  poor  country 
sucli  us  ours.  Of  course,  the;  v.ui  not  be  gentlemen  ;  that  sort 
oi'  ostentation  is  totally  incompatible  with  gentility."  Their 
first  overtures  did  not  impress  me  more  favorably  toward  them. 
They  were  disposed  to  be  familiar  at  the  start.  There  was  an 
assumed  composure,  a  laborious  ease  about  them,  which  showed 
them  to  be  practising  a  part.  There  is  no  difficulty  in  discov 
ering  whether  a  man  has  been  bred  a  gentleman  or  not.  There 
is  no  acquiring  gentility  at  a  late  day  ;  and  but  few,  not  habitu 
ated  to  it  from  the  first,  can  ever,  by  any  art,  study,  or  endeav 
or,  acquire,  in  a  subsequent  day,  those  nice  details  of  manners, 
that  exquisite  consideration  of  the  claims  ami  peculiarities  of 
those  in  their  neighborhood,  which  e;:rly  education  alone  cau 
certainly  give.  Our  chamber  companions  evidently  strove  at 
self-complacency.  There  was  a  desperate  ostentation  of  sa?tg- 
froid,  a  most  lavish  freedom  of  air  about  them,  which  made 
their  familiarity  obtrusiveness,  and  their  ease  swagger.  > 
glance  told  me  what  they  were,  so  far  as  manners  went ;  and  . 
never  believed  in  the  sympathy  between  bad  manners  and  mor 
als.  They  may  exist  together.  'There's  some  such  possibility; 
yet  I  never  saw  them  united.  A  man  with  bad  manners  may 
not  steal,  nor  lie,  but  he  can  not  be  amiable ;  he  can  not  often 
be  just ;  he  will  be  tyrannical  if  you  suffer  him  ;  and  the  cloven 
hoof  of  the  beast  must  appear,  though  it  makes  its  exhibition 
on  a  Brussels  carpeting. 

These  fellows  had  a  good  many  questions  to  ask  us,  and  a 
good  many  remark?  to  make,  before  we  got  to  sleep  that  night. 
Nor  was  this  very  much  amiss.  The  custom  of  the  country  is  to 
ask  questions,  and  to  ask  them  with  directness.  There  the  south 
west  differs  from  the  eastern  country.  The  Yankee  obtains  his 
knowledge  by  circumlocution ;  and  his  modes  of  getting  it,  a»> 
as  ingeniously  indirect  as  the  cow-paths  of  Boston.  He  pro 
ceeds  as  if  he  thought  it  impertinent  to  gratify  his  desire,  or  — 
and,  perhaps,  this  is  the  better  reason  —  as  if  he  were  conscious 
of  motives  for  his  curiosity,  other  than  those  which  he  acknow) 
edges.  The  southwestern  man,  living  remotely  from  the 
cities,  and  anxious  fo-  intelligence  of  regions  of  which  he 


THE   TRAVELLED   FALL   AMONU    THIEVES. 

little  personal  acquarj^vri.'e,  taxes,  in  plain  terms,  the  resources 
of  every  stranger  whom  he  meets.  lie  is  quite  as  willing  to  an 
swer,  as  to  ask,  and  this  readiness  acquits  him,  or  should  acquit 
him,  of  any  charge  of  rudeness.  We  found  no  fault  with  the 
curiosity  of  our  companions,  but  I  so  little  relished  their  man 
ners,  as  to  forbear  questioning  them  in  return.  Carrington  was 
less  scrupulous,  however ;  he  made  sundry  inquiries  to  which 
he  received  unsatisfactory  replies,  and  toward  midnight,  I  was 
pleased  to  find  that  the  chattering  was  fairly  over. 

We  slept  without  interruption,  and  awakened  before  the 
strangers.  It  was  broad  daylight,  and,  hastening  our  toilets, 
we  descended  to  the  breakfast-room.  There  we  were  soon  fol 
lowed  by  the  two,  and  my  observation  by  day,  rather  confirmed 
my  impressions  of  the  preceding  night.  They  were  quite  too 
nice  in  their  deportment  to  be  wise ;  they  foun'1  fault  with  the 
arrangements  of  the  table  —  their  breakfast  did  not  suit  them  — 
the  eggs  were  too  much  or  too  little  done,  and  they  turned  up 
their  noses  at  the  coffee  with  exquisite  distaste.  Tl>e  landlord 
reddened,  but  bore  it  with  tolerable  patience  for  a  republican , 
and  the  matter  passed  off  without  a  squall,  though  I  momently 
looked  for  one.  Little  things  are  apt  to  annoy  lit*.le  peop-f 
and  I  have  usually  found  those  persons  most  apt  to  be  dissatis 
fied  with  the  world,  whose  beginnings  in  it  have  been  most 
mean  and  contemptible.  The  whole  conduct  of  the  stranger" 
increased  my  reserve  toward  them. 

To  us,  however,  they  wore  civil  enough.  Their  policy  wa» 
in  it.  They  spoke  to  us  as  if  we  were  not  merely  friends,  but 
bed-fellows;  and  in  a  style  of  gentility  exceedingly  new  to  us, 
one  of  them  put  his  arm  about  the  neck  of  my  friend.  I  almost 
5xpected  to  see  him  knocked  down  ;  for,  with  all  his  gentleness 
A  mood,  Carrington  was  a  very  devil  when  his  blood  was  up, 
*nd  hated  every  sort  of  imm-rtinence ;  but  whether  he  thought 
it  wiser  to  forbear  in  a  strange  place,  or  was  curious  to  see  how 
far  the  fellow  would  go,  he  s*:;..  nothing,  but  smiled  patiently 
till  the  speech  which  accompfniied  the  embrace  was  fairly  over 
and  then  quietly  withdrew  from  its  affectionate  control. 

The  day  was  rainy  and  squally  —  to  such  a  degree  that  we 
could  not  go  out.  How  to  amuse  ourselves  was  a  question  no* 
•o  easily  answered  in  a  strange  country-tavern  where  we  had 


124  ilCHARb   HUBRIS. 

no  books,  and  no  society.  Aftor  breakfast  we  returned  to  ow 
apartment,  and  threw  ourselves  upon  the  beds.  To  talk  of 
home,  and  the  two  maidens,  whom  we  had  loft  under  such  dif 
fering  circumstances,  was  our  only  alternative;  and  thus  em 
ployed  our  two  stranger  companions  came  in.  Their  excuse 
for  the  intrusion  was  the  weatlter,  and  as  their  rights  to  the 
chamber  were  equal  to  ours,  we  had  nothing  to  say  against  it. 
Still  I  was  disquieted  and  almost  angry.  I  spoke  very  distant 
ly  and  coldly  in  reply  to  their  speeches,  and  they  quickly  saw 
tha«  I  was  disposed  to  keep  them  at  arm's  length.  But  my  de 
sire,  with  such  persons,  was  not  of  so  easy  attainment.  The 
reserve  of  a  gentleman  is  not  apt  to  be  respected,  even  if  seen 
by  those  who  have  never  yet  learned  the  first  lessons  of  gen 
tility  ;  and  do  what  I  would,  I  still  found  that  they  were  utter 
ing  propositions  in  my  ears  which  I  was  necessarily  obliged  to 
answer,  or  acknowledge.  In  this,  they  were  tacitly  assisted  by 
my  friend. 

Carrington,  whose  disposition  was  far  more  accessible  than 
mine,  chatted  with  them  freely,  and,  what  was  worse,  told  them 
very  nearly  all  of  his  purposes  and  projects.  They,  too,  were 
seeking  land  ;  they  were  speculators  from  New  York  —  agents 
for  great  land-companies  —  such  as  spring  up  daily  in  that  city, 
and  flood  the  country  with  a  nominal  capital,  that  changes  like 
magic  gold  into  worthless  paper  every  five  years  or  less.  They 
talked  of  thousands,  and  hundreds  of  thousands,  with  the  glib- 
ness  of  men  who  had  handled  nothing  else  from  infancy  ;  and 
never  was  imagination  more  thoroughly  taken  prisoner  than 
« as  that  of  Carrington.  He  fairly  gasped  while  listening  to 
them.  Their  marvellous  resources  confounded  him.  With 
three  thousand  dollars,  and  thirty  negroes,  he  had  considered 
himself  no  small  capitalist;  but  now  he  began  to  feel  really 
humble,  and  I  laughed  aloud  as  I  beheld  the  effects  of  his  con 
sternation  upon  him.  Conversation  lagged  at  length ;  even 
those  wondrous  details  of  the  agents  of  the  great  New  York 
company  tired  the  hearers,  and,  it  would  seem,  the  speakers 
too ;  for  they  came  to  a  pause.  The  mind  can  not  bear  too 
touch  glitter  any  more  than  the  eye.  They  now  talked  to- 
:<»ther,  and  one  of  them,  at  length,  produced  cards  from  hit 
j-unjr 


THE  TRAVELLERS  PALL   AMONG  THIEVES.  126 

"  Will  you  play,  gentlemen  1"  they  asked  civilly. 

"i  am  obliged  to  you,"  was  my  reply,  in  freezing  tones, 
*  but  I  would  rather  not  ' 

I  was  ansvjred,  greatly  to  my  mortification,  by  Carrington — 

"  And  why  not,  Dick  1  You  play  well,  and  I  know  you  like 
it." 

This  was  forcing  upon  me  an  avowal  of  my  dislike  to  our 
would-be  acquaintance  which  I  would  havu  preferred  to  avoid. 
But,  as  it  was,  I  resolved  upon  my  course. 

"  You  know  I  never  like  to  play  among  strangers,  William !" 

"  Pshaw  !  my  dear  fellow,  what  of  that  ?  Come,  take  a  hand 
— we're  here  in  a  place  we  know  nothing  about,  and  where  no 
body  knows  us.  It's  monstrous  dull,  and  if  we  don't  play,  we 
may  as  well  drown." 

"  Excuse  me,  William." 

"  Can't,  Dick — can't  think  of  it,"  was  his  reply. 

"  You  must  take  a  hand,  or  we  can't  play.  Whist  is  my  only 
game,  you  know,  and  there's  but  three  of  us  without  you." 

"  Take  dummy,"  was  my  answer. 

"  What !  without  knowing  how  to  value  him  ?  Oh,  no  !  Be 
sides,  I  can't  play  that  game  well." 

You  may  fight,  or  eat,  or  speak,  or  travel  with  a  man,  with 
out  making  yourself  his  companion  —  but  you  can't  play  with 
him  without  incurring  his  intimacy.  Now,  I  was  somewhat 
prejudiced  against  these  strangers,  and  had  so  far  studiously 
avoided  their  familiarity.  To  play  with  them  was  to  make  my 
former  labor  in  vain,  as  well  as  to  invite  the  consequences 
which  I  had  beet  so  desirous  to  avert.  But  to  utter  these  rea 
sons  aloud  was  to  challenge  them  to  the  bull-ring,  and  there 
was  no  wisdom  in  that.  My  thoughtless  friend  urged  the  mat 
tsr  with  a  zeal  no  less  imprudent  in  his  place  than  it  was  irk 
some  in  mine.  He  woiild  hear  no  excuses,  and  appealed  to  my 
courtesy  against  my  principle,  alleging  the  utter  impossibility 
of  their  being  able  to  find  the  desired  amusement  without  my 
help. 

Not  to  seem  churlish,  I  at  length  gave  way.  Bitterly  do  T 
reproach  myself  that  I  did  so.  But  how  was  I  then — in  my 
boyhood,  as  it  were — to  anticipate  such  consequences  from  sc 
seemingly  small  a  source.  But,  in  morals,  no  departure  from 


126  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

principles  is  small.  All  principles  are  significant  —  are  essen 
tial —  in  the  formation  of  truth  j  and  the  neglect  or  omission  of 
the  smallest  among  them  is  not  one  evil  merely,  or  one  error — 
but  a  thousand  —  it  is  the  parent  of  a  thousand,  each,  in  its  turn, 
endowed  with  a  frightful  fecundity  more  productive  than  the 
plagues  of  Egypt  —  more  enduring,  and  not  less  hideous  and 
fi  ightful.  Take  care  of  small  r/nciples,  if  you  would  preserve 
great  truths  sacred. 

As  I  have  said,  I  suffered  myself — it  matters  not  with  what 
motives  or  feeling — to  be  persuaded  by  my  friend  to  play  with 
him  and  the  strangers.  I  took  my  seat  opposite  to  Carrington. 
The  strangers  played  together.  Whist  was  the  game  —  a  game 
we  both  delighted  in,  and  which  we  both  played  with  tolerable 
skill.  The  cards  were  thrown  upon  the  table,  and  we  drew  for 
the  deal. 

"  What  do  you  bet  ?"  said  one  of  the  strangers  addressing  me. 
At  the  same  moment,  his  companion  addressed  a  like  inquiry  to 
my  partner. 

"  Nothing ;  I  never  bet,"  was  my  reply. 

"  A  Mexican  !"  said  Carrington,  throwing  the  coin  upon  the 
table.  My  opponent  expressed  his  disappointment  at  my  re 
fusal. 

"  There's  no  fun  in  playing  unless  you  bet !" 

"  You  mistake,"  was  my  reply.  "  I  find  an  interest  in  the 
game  which  no  risk  of  money  could  stimulate.  I  do  not  bet ; 
it  is  a  resolution." 

My  manner  was  such  as  to  forbid  any  further  prosecution  of 
his  object.  He  was  compelled  to  content  himself  as  he  might; 
and  drawing  for  the  deal,  it  fell  to  him.  He  took  the  cards, 
and,  to  my  surprise,  proceeded  to  shuffle  them  after  a  fashion 
which  I  had  been  always  taught  to  regard  as  dishonorable.  He 
would  draw  single  cards  alternately  from  top  and  bottom,  and 
bring  them  together ;  and,  in  this  way,  as  I  well  knew,  would 
throw  all  the  trump-cards  into  the  hands  of  himself  and  partner 
I  did  not  scruple  to  oppose  this  mode  of  shuffling. 

"  The  effect  will  be,"  I  told  him,  "  to  bring  the  trumps  into 
your  own  and  partner's  haiilj.  I  have  seen  the  trick  before. 
It  is  a  trick,  and  that  is  enough  to  make  it  objectionable.  I 
have  no  pleasure  in  playing  a  game  with  all  the  cards  aerainst  me.'' 


THE   TRAVELLERS    FALL    AMONU    THIEVES.  127 

He  denied  tlie  certainty  of  the  result  which  T  predicted,  and 
persisted  in  finishing  as  he  had  begun.  I  would  have  arisen 
from  the  table  but  my  friend's  eyes  appealed  to  me  to  stay. 
He  was  anxious  to  play,  and  quite  too  fond  of  the  game,  and, 
perhaps,  too  dull  where  he  was,  to  heed  or  insist  upon  any  little 
improprieties.  The  result  was  as  I  predicted.  There  was  but 
a  single  trump  between  myself  and  partner. 

"  You  sec,"  I  exclaimed,  as  the  hand  was  finished,  "  such 
dealing  is  unfair." 

"  No  !  I  see  not.  It  so  happens,  it  is  true  ;  but  it  is  not  un 
fair,"  was  the  reply  of  the  dealer. 

"  Fair  or  not,"  I  answered,  "  it  matters  not.  If  this  mode  of 
shuffling  has  the  effect  of  throwing  the  good  cards  invariably 
into  one  hand,  it  produces  such  a  disparity  between  the  parties 
as  takes  entirely  from  the  pleasure  in  the  game.  There  is  no 
game,  indeed,  when  the  force  is  purely  on  the  one  side." 

"  But  such  is  not  invariably  the  result." 

Words  were  wasted  upon  them.  I  saw  then  what  they  were. 
Gentlemen  disdain  the  advantage,  even  when  fairly  obtained, 
which  renders  intelligence,  skill,  memory,  and  reflection  —  in- 
leed,  all  qualities  of  mind  —  entirely  useless.  As  players,  our 
opponents  had  no  skill;  like  gamblers  usually  they  relied  on 
trick  for  success,  and  strove  to  obtain,  by  miserable  stratagem, 
what  other  men  seek  from  thought  and  honest  endeavor.  I 
would  have  risen  from  the  table  as  these  thoughts  passed 
through  my  mind.  We  had  lost  the  game,  and  I  had  had 
enough  of  them  and  it.  But  my  friend  entreated  me. 

"  What  matters  one  game  ]"  he  said.  "  It  is  our  turn  now. 
We  shall  do  better." 

The  stake  was  removed  by  his  opponent,  and,  while  I  shuf 
fled  the  cards,  he  was  required  to  rent,  v  ;\:s  bet.  In  doing  so, 
by  a  singular  lapse  of  thought,  he  drew  from  a  side-pocket  in 
his  bosom,  the  large  roll  of  money  with  which  he  travelled,  for 
getting  the  small  purse  which  he  had  prepared  for  his  travelling 
expenses.  He  was  conscious,  when  too  late,  of  his  error.  He 
hurried  it  back  to  its  place  of  concealment,  and  drew  forth  the 
purse  ;  but  in  the  one  moment  which  he  employed  in  doing  so 
I  could  see  that  the  eyes  of  our  companions  had  caught  sight  of 
the  treasure.  It  may  have  been  fancy  in  me,  the  result  of  m} 


128  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

suspicious  disposition,  but  I  thought  that  their  eyes  sparkled  as 
they  beheld  it,  and  there  was  an  instant  interchange  of  glances 
between  them. 

Hurriedly  I  shuffled  through,  and  with  an  agitation  which  I 
could  not  well  conceal,  I  dealt  out  the  cards.  There  was  a 
general  and  somewhat  unwonted  silence  around  the  table.  We 
all  seemed  to  be  conscious  of  thoughts  and  feelings,  which 
needed  to  be  concealed.  The  cheeks  of  my  companion  were 
red ;  but  he  laughed  and  played.  His  first  play  was  an  error. 
I  fixed  my  eye  upon  one  of  the  strangers  and  his  glance  fell 
beneath  it.  There  was  a  guilty  thought  busy  in  his  bosom. 
Scarcely  a  word  was  spoken  —  none  unnecessarily — while  that 
hand  lasted.  But  when  it  came  to  the  turn  of  one  of  our  oppo 
nents  to  deal,  and  when  I  found  him  shuffling  as  before,  I  grew 
indignant.  I  protested.  He  insisted  upon  his  right  to  shuffle 
as  he  pleased  —  a  right  which  I  denied.  He  would  not  yield 
the  point,  and  I  left  the  table.  The  fellow  would  have  put  on 
airs,  and  actually  thought  to  bully  me.  He  used  soiie  big 
words,  and,  rising  at  the  same  time,  approached  me. 

"  Sir,  your  conduct — " 

I  stopped  him  half  way,  and  in  his  speech — 

"  Is  insulting  you  would  say." 

"  I  do,  sir ;  very  insulting,  sir,  very/' 

"Be  it  so.  I  can  not  help  it.  I  will  play  with  no  man  who 
imploys  a  mode  of  shuffling  which  puts  all  the  trump  cards 
into  his  own  and  partner's  hands.  I  do  not  wish  to  play  with 
you,  anyhow,  sir  ;  and  very  much  regret  that  the  persuasions  of 
my  friend  made  me  yield  against  my  better  judgment.  My  rui^ 
is  never  to  play  with  strangers,  and  your  game  has  confirmed 
me  in  my  opinion  of  its  propriety.  I  shall  take  care  never  to 
depart  from  it  in  future," 

"  Sir,  you  don't  mean  to  impute  anything  to  my  honor.  If 
you  do,  sir " 

My  reply  to  this  swagger  was  anticipated  by  William,  who 
had  not  before  spoken,  but  now  stood  between  us. 

••  And  what  if  he  did,  eh  T' 

"  Why,  sir — but  I  was  not  speaking  to  you,  sir,"  said  tht 
fellow. 


THE   TRAVELLERS    FALL    AMOXG    THIEVES.  120 

"Ay,  I  know  that,  but  Tin  speaking  to  you.  What  if  he  did 
doubt  your  honor,  and  what  if  I  doubt  it,  eh  ! " 

"  Why  then,  sir,  if  you  did  —  The  fellow  paused.  He  was  a 
mere  bully  and  looked  round  to  his  companion,  who  still  kept  a  quiet 
seat  at  the  table. 

"Pshaw!"  exclaimed  William,  in  a  most  contemptuous 
manner. 

"  You  are  mistaken  in  your  men,  ray  good  fellow.  Take  up  your 
Mexican,  and  thank  your  stars  you  have  got  it  so  easily.  Shut 
up  now  and  be  quiet.  It  lies  upon  the  table,"  The  fellow 
obeyed. 

"  You  won't  play  any  longer  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"No,"  was  my  reply.  "To  play  with  you,  i.^  to  make  you  and 
declare  you,  our  friends.  We  will  fight  with  you,  if  you  please,  but 
not  play  with  you  !  " 

To  this  proposition  the  answer  was  slow.  We  \vere,  at  least, 
possessors  of  the  ground.  But  our  triumph  w:n  a  monstrous 
small  one,  and  we  paid  for  it.  The  annoyance  of  the  whole 
scene  was  excessive  to  me.  Carrington  did  not  so  much  feel 
it.  He  was  a  careless,  buoyant,  good  sort  of  creature,  having 
none  of  my  suspicion,  and  little  of  that  morbid  pride  which 
boiled  in  me.  He  laughed  at  the  fellows  and  the  whole  affair, 
when  I  was  most  disposed  to  groan  over  it,  and  to  curse  them. 
I  could  only  bring  his  countenance  to  a  grave  expression,  when 
I  reminded  him  of  his  imprudence  in  taking  out  his  roll  of 
money. 

"  Ay,  that  was  cursed  careless,"  he  replied  ;  "but  there's  no  help 
ing  it  now  —  I  must  only  keep  my  wits  about  me  next  time  ;  and  i  f 
harm  comes  from  it,  keep  a  stiff  lip  and  a  stout  heart,  and  be  ready 
to  meet  it." 

William  Carrington  was  too  brave  a  fellow  to  think  long  of  dan 
ger,  and  he  went  to  bed  that  night  with  as  light  a  heart  as  if  he  had 
not  a  sixpence  in  the  world. 

6* 


130  RICHAKD  HURDIS. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

AMONG   PITS    AND   TRAPFALLS. 

u  I  heard  myself  proclaim'd; 
And,  by  the  happy  hollow  of  a  tree, 
Escaped  the  hunt.    No  port  is  free  ;  no  place. 
That  guard  and  most  unusual  vigilance 
Does  not  attend  my  taking.    While  I  may  'scape, 
I  will  preserve  myself."  King  Lear. 

THE  next  day  opened  bright  and  beautiful,  and  we  prepared 
to  resume  our  journey.  Our  fellow-chamberers  had  not  shown 
themselves  to  us  since  our  rupture ;  they  had  not  slept  that 
night  at  the  tavern.  Their  absence  gave  us  but  little  concern 
at  the  time,  though  we  discovered  afterward  that  it  had  no  lit 
tle  influence  upon  our  movements.  I  have  already  said  that 
my  companion  held  a  claim  upon  a  man  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Tuscaloosa,  for  some  hundred  and  thirty  dollars,  the  price  of  a 
mule  which  he  had  sold  to  him  during  the  previous  season. 
To  collect  this  debt  had  been  the  only  motive  for  carrying  us 
so  far  from  our  direct  route,  which  had  been  to  Chochuma. 
The  man's  name  was  Matthew  Webber ;  of  his  character  and 
condition  we  knew  nothing,  save  that  he  was  a  small  farmer 
supposed  to  be  doing  well.  That  he  had  not  paid  the  money 
before,  when  due,  was  rather  an  unfavorable  symptom ;  but  of 
the  ultimate  payment  of  it  William  had  not  the  slightest  doubt, 
He  was  secured  by  the  indorsed  promise  of  a  Colonel  Graf  ton, 
a  gentleman  of  some  wealth,  who  planted  about  fourteen  miles 
from  Tuscaloosa,  in  the  direction  of  Columbus,  but  fully  eleven 
miles  from  the  road.  There  was  a  short  cut  to  his  house,  and 
we  proposed  to  ride  thither  and  obtain  directions  for  finding 
the  debtor.  He  had  once  been  Graftou's  overseer  and  the  lat 
ter  knew-  all  about  him.  Our  landlord,  who  had  grown  civil 


AMONG  PITS   AND   TRAPFALIJ3.  Idl 

enough  to  us,  and  who  was  really  a  very  good  sort  » f  body 
when  taken  in  the  grain,  freely  gave  us  prope*  instructions  for 
finding  our  road  by  the  short  cut.  Of  Grafton  he  spoke  with 
kindness  and  respect,  but  I  could  not  help  observing,  when  w«* 
inquired  after  Webber,  that  he  evaded  inquiry,  and  when  re 
peated,  shook  his  head  and  turned  away  to  other  customers. 
He  evidently  knew  enough  to  think  unfavorably,  and  his  glance 
when  lie  spoke  of  the  man  was  tu^.isy  and  suspicious.  Finding 
other  questions  unproductive,  we  had  our  horses  brought  forth, 
paid  our  charges,  and  prepared  to  mount.  Our  feet  were  al 
ready  in  the  stirrups,  when  the  landlord  followed  us,  saying 
abruptly,  but  in  a  low  tone,  as  he  readied  the  spot  where  we 
stood :  — 

"  Gentlemen,  I  don't  know  much  of  the  people  whom  you 
seek,  but  I  know  but  little  that  is  very  favorable  of  the  country 
into  which  you're  going.  Take  a  hint  before  starting.  If  you 
have  anything  to  lose,  it's  easy  losing  it  on  the  road  to  Cho- 
chuma,  and  the  less  company  you  keep  as  you  travel,  the  bet 
ter  for  your  saddle-bags.  Perhaps,  too,  it  wouldn't  be  amiss, 
if  you  look  at  your  pistols  before  you  start." 

He  did  not  wait  for  our  answer,  but  returned  to  his  bar-room 
and  other  avocations  as  if  his  duty  was  ended.  We  were  both 
surprised,  but  I  did  not  care  to  reject  his  warnings.  William 
laughed  at  the  gravity  of  the  advice  given  us,  but  I  saw  it  with 
other  eyes.  If  I  was  too  suspicious  of  evil,  I  well  knew  that 
my  companion  was  apt  to  err  in  the  opposite  extreme  —  he  was 
imprudent  and  thoughtless;  and,  in  recklessness  of  courage 
only,  prevented  a  thousand  evil  consequences  which  had  other 
wise  occurred  from  his  too  confiding  nature. 

"  Say  nothing  now,"  I  observed  to  him  —  "but  let  us  ride 
till  we  get  into  the  woods,  then  see  to  your  pistols." 

"  Pshaw,  Dick,"  was  his  reply,  "  what  do  you  suspect  now  'i 
The  pistols  have  been  scarcely  out  »f  sight  since  we  left  home." 

"  They  have  been  out  of  si^ht.  We  left  them  always  in  the 
chamber  when  we  went  to  meaid.* 

"  True,  but  for  a  few  moments  only,  and  then  all  about  the 
house  were  at  meals  also  " 

"  No ;  at  breakfast  yesterday  those  gamblers  came  in  after  us, 
and  I  think  then  they  came  from  our  chamber  Besides,  though 


132  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

they  did  not  sleep  with  us  last  night,  I  am  persuaded  that  one 
or  both  of  them  were  in  the  room.  I  heard  a  light  step  at  mid 
night,  or  fancied  it ;  and  found  my  overcoat  turned  this  morn 
ing  upon  the  chair." 

"  The  chambermaid,  or  Gufly  for  the  boots.  You  are  the 
mojt  suspicious  fellow,  Dick,  and,  somehow,  you  hated  these 
two  poor  devils  from  tin*  very  first  moment  you  laid  eyes  on 
them.  Now,  d — n  'em.  for  my  part,  I  never  gave  'em  a  second 
{bought  I  could  have  licked  either,  or  both,  and  when  that 
chap  with  the  hook-nose  began  to  swagger  about,  I  felt  mon 
strous  like  doing  it.  But  he  was  a  poor  shote,  and  the  less  said 
and  thought  of  him  the  better.  1  should  not  care  much  to  meet 
him  if  he  had  carried  the  pistols  quite  off,  and  presented  them 
»,o  me,  muzzle-stuffed,  at  the  next  turning." 

"  He  may  yet  do  so,"  was  my  calm  reply.  "  At  least  it  will 
•lo  us  no  harm  to  prepare  for  all  events.  Let  us  clear  the  town, 
and  when  we  once  get  well  hidden  in  the  woods,  we'll  take 
Counsel  of  our  landlord,  and  see  to  our  priming." 

"  Why  not  do  it  now  ?" 

'  For  the  best  of  reasons  —  there  are  eyes  on  us,  and  some  ^f 
them  may  be  unfriendly.  Better  that  they  should  suppose  us 
ignorant  and  unprepared,  if  they  meditate  evil." 

"As  you  please,  but  1  would  not  be  as  jealous  and  suspicious 
as  you  are,  Dick,  not  for  all  I'm  worth." 

"It  may  be  worth  that  to  von  to  become  so.  But  ride  on; 
the  ferryman  halloos,  and  beckons  us  to  hasten.  There  are 
other  travellers  to  cross.  I'm  sorry  for  it.  We  want  no  more 
company." 

"Ay,  but  we  do,  Dick.  The  more  the  merrier,  say  I.  If 
there's  a  dozen,  no  harm,  so  they  be  not  in  our  way  in  entering 
land.  I  like  good  company.  A  hearty  joke,  or  a  good  storv, 
sets  me  laughing  all  the  day.  None  of  your  travellers  that  need 
to  be  bawled  at  to  ride  up,  and  open  their  ovens ;  none  of  your 
sober-sided,  drawling,  croaking  methodists,  for  me  —  your  fel 
lows  that  preach  against  good  living,  yet  eat  of  the  fat  of  the 
land  whenever  they  can  get  it,  and  never  refuse  a  collection, 
however  small  the  amount.  If  I  hate  any  two-legged  creature 
that  calls  himself  human,  it  is  your  canting  fellow,  that  preaches 
pennyworths  of  morality,  and  practises  pounds  of  sin;  that  says 


AMONG    PITS    AND    TIlAl'FALLS.  13b 

r  long  grace  at  Flipper,  till  flic  moat  grows  cold,  and  that  same 
light  inveigles  }  jur  chambermaid  into  the  blankets  beside  him 
I  wouldn't  think  so  much  of  the  sin  if  it  wasn't  lor  the  hypoc 
risy.  It's  bad  enough  to  love  the  -neal  ;  but  to  preach  over  it, 
before  eating,  is  a  shame  as  well  as  a  sin.  Nore  but  your 
sneaks  do  it;  fellows  whom  you  might  safer  trust  with  your  soul 
than  with  your  purse.  They  could  do  little  harm  to  the  one, 
but  they'd  make  off  with  the  other.  None  of  those  chaps  for 
me,  Dick  ;  yet  give  me  as  manv  travellers  as  v<.u  please.  Here 
seem  to  be  several  going  to  cross;  all  wagoners  but  one,  and  be 
seems  just  one  of  the  scamps  I've  been  talking  of — a  short, 
chunky,  black-coated  lit'.le  body  :  ten  to  one  his  nose  turns  up 
like  a  piig-puppy's,  «ud  lie  talks  through  it." 

It  was  in  such  careless  mood  and  with  such  loose  speech  that 
my  companion  beguiled  the  time  between  our  leaving  the  hotel 
and  reaching  the  flat  which  was  to  convey  us  across  the  river. 
William  was  in  the  very  best  of  spirits,  and  these  prompted  him 
to  a  freedom  of  speech  which  might  be  supposed  to  denote^ome 
laxity  of  morals  ;  and  yet  his  morals  were  unquestionable  In 
deed,  it  is  not  unfrequcntly  the  case  that  a  looseness  of  speech  is 
associated  with  a  rigid  practice  of  propriety.  A  consciousness 
of  purity  is  very  apt  to  prompt  a  license  of  speech  in  hin>  \\  h^ 
possesses  it;  while  he,  on  the  other  band,  who  is  most  apt  to 
indulge  in  vice,  will  most  usually'  prove  himself  most  circum 
spect  in  speech.  Vice,  to  be.  successful,  calls  for  continual  cir 
cumspection  ;  and  in  no  respect  does  it  exhibit  this  quality  more 
strikingly  than  in  the  utterance  of  its  sentiments.  The  family 
of  Joe  Surface  is  a  singularly  numerous  one.  My  companion 
was  no  Joe  Surface.  He  carried  his  character  in  his  looks,  in 
his  speech,  and  in  his  actions.  When  you  saw  the  looks,  heard 
the  speech,  and  witnessed  the  actions,  you  had  him  before  you, 
without  possibility  or  prospect  of  change,  for  good  and  for  evil , 
and,  to  elevate  still  more  highly  the  character  which  I  admired, 
and  the  man  I  could  not  but  love,  I  will  add  that  he  was  only 
too  apt  to  extenuate  the  motives  of  others  by  a  reference  to  his 
own.  He  had  no  doubts  of  the  integrity  of  his  fellow  —  no  f«  ars 
of  wrong  at  his  hand ;  was  born  with  a  nature  as  clear  as  the 
sunlight,  ab  Confiding  as  the  winds,  and  had  seen  too  little  of 
the  world,  at  the  period  of  which  I  speak,  to  have  bad  ex  peri- 


134  RICHARD   IIURDIS. 

ence  un teach  the  sweeter  lessons  of  his  unsophisticated  humanity. 
Let  not  the  reader  chide  me  as  lavish  in  my  eulogy  :  before  he  does 
so,  let  me  pray  him  to  suppose  it  written  upon  his  tombstone. 

We  soon  reached  the  Hat,  and  were  on  our  way  across  the 
river  in  a  lew  minutes  after.  The  little  man  in  the  black  coat 
had,  in  truth,  as  my  companion  had  predicted,  a  little  pug  puppy 
nose,  but  in  his  other  guesses  he  was  quite  out.  We  soon  dis 
covered  that  he  was  no  sermonizer  —  there  was  anything  but 
hypocrisy  in  his  character.  On  the  contrary,  he  swore  like  a 
trooper  whenever  occasion  offered ;  and  I  was  heartily  rejoiced, 
for  the  decency  of  the  thing,  if  for  no  other  reason,  to  discover, 
as  I  soon  did,  that  the  fellow  was  about  to  take  another  road 
from  ourselves.  The  other  men,  three  in  number,  were  farmers 
in  the  neighborhood,  who  had  been  in  to  supply  the  Tuscaloosa 
market.  Like  the  people  of  all  countries  who  live  in  remote 
interior  situations  and  see  few  strangers  who  can  teach  them 
anything,  these  people  had  each  a  hundred  questions  to  ask, 
and  as  many  remarks  to  make  upon  the  answers.  They  were 
a  hearty,  frank,  plain-spoken,  unequivocal  set,  who  would  share 
with  you  their  hoe-cake  and  bacon,  or  take  a  fling  or  dash  of  fisti 
cuffs  with  you,  according  to  the  several  positions,  as  friend  or  foe, 
which  you  might  think  proper  to  take.  Among  all  the  people  of 
this  soil,  good  humor  is  almost  the  only  rule  which  will  enable  the 
stranger  to  get  along  safely. 

We  were  soon  over  the  river,  which  is  broad  and  not  so  rapid  at 
this  spot  as  at  many  others.  The  Tuscaloosa  or  Black  Warrior  river 
is  a  branch  of  the  Tombeckbc. 

The  site  of  the  town  which  bears  its  name,  and  which  is  now 
the  capital  town  of  Alabama,  was  that  of  the  Black  Warrior's 
best  village.  There  is  no  remnant,  no  vestige,  no  miserable 
cabin,  to  testify  to  what  he  and  his  people  were.  The  memo 
rials  of  this  tribe,  like  that  of  all  the  American  tribes,  are  few, 
and  yet  the  poverty  of  the  relics  but  speak  the  more  emphat 
ically  for  the  mournfulncss  of  their  fate.  V," ho  will  succeed  to 
their  successors,  and  what  better  memorials  will  they  leave  to  the 
future  ?  It  is  the  boast  of  civilization  only  that  it  can  build  its  mon 
ument —  leave  its  memorial;  and  yet  Cheops,  could  he  now  look 
upon  his  mausoleum,  might  be  seen  to  smile  over  the  boast.  Enough 
of  this. 


JONG   PITS   AND   TRAPFAI.LS. 

Ve  naa  *io  sooner  separated  from  our  companions  of  the  boat 
and  got  fairly  into  the  shelter  of  the  woods,  than  I  reminded 
William  of  the  inspection  of  our  firearms,  which  I  proposed  to 
make  after  the  cautionary  hint  of  rny  landlord.  We  rode  aside, 
accordingly,  into  a  thick  copse  that  lay  to  the  right,  and  cov 
ered  a  group  of  hills,  and  drew  out  our  weapons.  To  the  utter 
astonishment  of  my  companion,  and  to  my  own  exasperation, 
we  found,  not  only  no  priming  in  the  pans  of  our  pistols,  but  the 
flints  knocked  out,  and  wooden  ones,  begrimed  with  gunpowder, 
substituted  in  their  place  !  Win, in  could  we  suspect  of  this  but 
our  two  shuffling  companions  of  the  chamber?  The  discovery 
was  full  of  warning.  We  were  in  a  bad  neighborhood,  and  it 
behooved  us  to  keep  our  wits  about  ns.  We  were  neither  of  us 
men  to  be  terrified  into  inactivity  by  the  prospect  of  danger; 
and,  though  aroused  and  apprehensive,  we  proceeded  to  prepare 
against  the  events  which  seemed  to  threaten  ns,  and  we  knew 
not  on  which  hand.  Fortunately,  we  had  other  Hints,  and  other 
weapons,  and  we  put  all  of  them  in  readiness  for  instant  requi 
sition.  We  had  scarcely  done  so,  and  remounted,  when  we 
heard  a  horseman  riding  down  the  main  track  toward  the  river 
We  did  not  look  to  se(!  who  the  traveller  might  be,  but,  taking 
our  own  course,  entered  upon  the  left-hand  trail  of  a  fork,  which 
took  us  out  of  the  main,  into  a  neighboring  road,  by  which  we 
proposed  to  reach  the  plantation  of  Mr.  Grafton  in  the  rear, 
avoiding  the  front  or  main  road,  as  it  was  some  little  distance 
longer.  To  our  own  surprise,  we  reached  the  desired  place  in 
safety,  and  without  the  smallest  interruption  of  any  kind.  Yet 
oar  minds  had  been  wrought  up  and  excited  to  the  very  high 
est  pitch  of  expectation,  and  I  felt  that  something  like  disap 
pointment  was  predominant  in  my  bosom,  for  the  very  security 
we  then  enjoyed.  A  scuffle  had  been  a  relief  to  that  anxiety 
which  was  not  diminished  very  greatly  by  the  knowledge  that, 
for  a  brief  season,  we  were  free  from  danger.  The  trial,  we 
believed,  was  yet  to  come ;  and  the  suspense  of  waiting  was  a 
greater  source  of  annoyance  than  any  doubts  or  apprehension 
which  we  might  have  had  of  the  final  issue. 


RICHARD   HURDIS. 


JHAPTER   XVIII. 

A    FOREST    HOME. 

•Tlis  night  at  least /\A 

The  hospitable  hearth  Bhall  flame 
And 

Find  for  the  wanderer  rest  and  fire."  —  WALTER  SOOTT. 

COLO.XKI,  GRAFTOX —  for  we  are  all  colonels  at  least,  in  the 
southern  and  southwestern  states  —  received  us  at  the  doorsteps 
of  his  mansion,  and  gave  us  that  cordial  kind  of  reception  which 
makes  the  stranger  instantly  at  home.  Our  horses  were  taken, 
and,  in  defiance  of  all  our  pleading,  were  hurried  off  to  the  sta 
bles;  while  we  were  ushered  into  the  house  hy  our  host,  and 
made  acquainted  with  his  family.  This  consisted  of  his  wife,  a 
fine,  portly  dame  of  forty-five,  and  some  five  children,  in  the 
several  stages  from  seven  to  seventeen  —  the  eldest,  a  lovely 
damsel,  with  bright  blue  eyes  and  dark-brown  hair,  fair  as  a 
city  lily  ;  the  youngest  an  ambitious  urchin,  the  cracking  of 
whose  knotted  whip  filled  the  room  with  noises,  which  it  re 
quired  an  occasional  finger-shake  of  the  indulgent  mother  finally 
to  subdue.  Hospitality  was  a  presiding  virtue,  not  an  ostenta 
tious  pretender,  in  that  pleasant  household  ;  and,  in  the  space 
of  half  an  hour,  we  felt  as  comfortably  at  home  with  its  inmates 
as  if  we  had  been  associates  all  our  lives.  Colonel  Gr;\fton 
would  not  listen  to  our  leaving  him  that  night.  When  William 
pleaded  his  business,  he  had  a  sufficient  answer.  The  man 
whom  he  sought  lived  full  twelve  miles  ofi';  and,  through  a  te 
dious  region  of  country,  it  would  take  us  till  dark,  good  riding, 
to  reach  and  find  tlie  spot,  even  if  we  started  before  dinner  —  a 
violation  of  good  breeding  not  to  be  thought  of  in  Alabama. 
We  were  forced  to  stay,  and,  indeed,  needed  no  great  persua- 
iion.  The  air  of  the  whole  establishment  took  us  both  at  first 


A    FOREST   HOME.  137 

sight  There  is  a  household  as  well  as  individual  manner, 
which  moves  us  almost  with  as  great  an  influence ;  and  that  of 
Colonel  Grafton's  was  irresistible.  A  something  of  complete  life 
—  calm,  methodical,  symmetrical  life  —  life  in  repose  —  seemed 
to  mark  his  parlor,  his  hall,  the  arrangements  of  his  grounds 
and  gardens,  the  very  grouping  of  the  trees.  All  testified  to 
the  continual  presence  of  a  governing  mind,  whose  whole  feel 
ing  of  enjoyment  was  derived  from  order  —  a  method  as  rigor 
ous  as  it  was  simple  and  easy  of  attainment.  Yet  there  was  no 
trim  formality  in  either  his  own  or  his  wife's  deportment;  and, 
as  for  the  arrangement,  of  things  about  his  house,  you  could  im 
pute  to  neither  of  them  a  fastidious  nicety  and  marked  disposi 
tion  to  set  chairs  and  tables,  books  and  pictures,  over  and  against 
each  other  of  equal  size  and  like  color.  To  mark  what  I  mean 
more  distinctly,  I  will  say  that  he  never  seemed  to  insist  on 
having  tilings  in  their  places,  but  he  was  always  resolute  to  have 
them  iicccr  in  the  way.  There  is  no  citizen  of  the  world  who 
will  not  readily  conceive  the  distinction. 

We  had  a  good  dinner,  and,  after  dinner,  taking  his  wife  and 
all  his  children  along,  he  escorted  us  over  a  part  of  his  grounds, 
pointed  out  his  improvements,  and  gave  us  the  domestic  history 
of  his  settlement.  Miss  Grafton  afterward,  at  her  father's  sug 
gestion,  conducted  us  to  a  pleasant  promenade  of  her  own  find 
ing,  which,  in  the  indulgence  of  a  very  natural  sentimentality, 
she  had  entitled  "  The  Grove  of  Coronatte,"  after  a  lovesick 
Indian  maiden  of  that  name,  who,  it  is  said  by  tradition,  pre 
ferred  leaving  her  tribe  when  it  emigrated  to  the  Mississippi, 
to  an  exile  from  a  region  in  which  she  had  lived  from  infancy 
and  which  she  loved  better  than  her  people.  She  afterward 
became  the  wife  of  a  white  man  named  Johnson,  and  there  the 
tradition  ends.  The  true  story  —  as  Colonel  Grafton  more  than 
hinted  —  was,  that  Coronatte  was  tempted  by  Johnson  to  be 
come  his  wife  long  before  the  departure  of  the  tribe,  and  she 
in  obedience  to  natural  not  less  than  scriptural  laws,  preferred 
cleaving  to  her  husband  to  going  with  less-endearing  relations 
into  foreign  lands.  The  colonel  also  intimated  his  doubts  as  to 
the  formality  of  the  ceremony  by  which  the  two  vere  united 
but  this  latter  suggestion  \vs».-  u»;i.!.«  :••  u.^  ih  ;i  i.h'^por — Julia 
Graftou  wholly  denying,  and  with,  some  earnestness  I  thought, 


138  RICHARD   HURLIfi. 

even  such  portions  of  her  father's  version  of  the  romance  as  he 
had  permitted  to  reach  her  ears. 

That  night  we  rejoiced  in  a  warm  supper,  and,  wreii  it  waa 
ended,  I  had  reason  to  remark  with  delight  the  effect  upon  the 
whole  household  of  that  governing  character  on  the  part  of  its 
head  which  had  impressed  me  at  first  entering  it.  The  supper- 
things  seemed  removed  by  magic.  We  had  scarcely  left  the 
table,  Mrs.  Grafton  leading  the  way,  and  taken  our  places  around 
the  fire,  when  Julia  took  her  mother's  place  at  the  waiter ;  and 
without  noise,  bustle,  or  confusion,  the  plates  and  cups  and  sau 
cers  were  washed  and  despatched  to  their  proper  places.  A 
single  servant  only  attended,  and  this  servant  seemed  endowed 
with  ubiquity.  She  seemed  to  have  imbibed  the  general  habits 
of  her  superiors,  and  did  quite  as  much,  if  not  more,  than  would 
have  been  done  by  a  dozen  servants,  and  with  infinitely  less 
confusion.  Such  was  the  result  of  method  in  the  principal : 
there  is  a  moral  atmosphere,  and  we  become  acclimated,  when 
under  its  action,  precisely  as  in  the  physical  world.  The  slave 
had  tacitly  fallen  into  the  habits  and  moods  of  those  above  her 
—  as  inferiors  are  very  apt  to  do  —  and,  without  a  lesson  pre 
scribed  or  a  reason  spoken,  she  had  heeded  all  lessons,  and  felt, 
though  she  might  not  have  expressed,  the  reasons  for  all.  The 
whole  economy  of  the  household  was  admirable :  not  an  order 
was  given ;  no  hesitation  or  ignorance  of  what  was  needed, 
shown ;  but  each  seemed  to  know  by  instinct,  and  to  perform 
with  satisfaction,  his  or  her  several  duties.  Our  repasts  are  sel 
dom  conducted  anywhere  in  the  Southwest  with  a  strict  atten 
tion  to  order.  A  stupid  slave  puts  everything  into  confusion, 
and  we  do  not  help  the  matter  much  by  bringing  in  a  dozen  to 
her  aid.  The  fewer  servants  about  houses  the  better :  they 
learn  to  do,  the  more  they  are  required  to  do,  and  acquire  a 
habit  of  promptness  without  which  a  servant  might  be  always 
utterly  worthless. 

When  the  table  was  removed,  Julia  joined  us,  and  we  all 
chatted  pleasantly  together  for  the  space  of  an  hour.  As  soon 
as  the  conversation  seemed  to  flag,  at  a  signal  from  Colonel 
Grafton,  which  his  daughter  instantly  recognised  and  obeyed, 
she  rose,  and,  bringing  a  little  stand  to  the  fireside,  on  which 
lay  several  books,  she  prepared  to  read  to  us,  in  cojr.pliaucfl 


A    FOREST   HOME.  139 

with  one  of  the  fireside  laws  of  her  father  —  one  which  he  had 
insisted  upon,  and  which  she  had  followed,  from  the  first  mo- 
merit  of  her  being  able  to  read  tolerably.  She  now  read  well  — 
sweetly,  unaffectedly,  yet  impressively.  A  passage  from  "The 
Deserted  Village"  interested  us  for  half  an  hour;  and  the  book 
made  way  for  conversation  among  the  men,  and  needlework 
among  the  women.  But  the  whole  scene  impressed  mo  with 
delight  —  it  was  so  natural,  yet  so  uncommon  in  its  aspect  — 
done  with  so  much  ease,  with  so  little  effort,  yet  so  completely. 
Speaking  of  it  in  compliment  to  our  host  when  the  ladies  had 
retired,  we  received  a  reply  which  struck  me  as  embodying  the 
advantages  of  a  whole  host  of  moral  principles,  such  as  are  laid 
down  in  books,  but  without  any  of  their  cold  and  freezing  dry- 
nesses.  "  Sir,"  said  Colonel  Grafton,  "  I  ascribe  the  happiness 
of  my  family  to  a  very  simple  origin.  It  has  always  been  a 
leading  endeavor  with  me  to  make  my  children  love  the  family 
fireside.  If  the  virtues  should  dwell  anywhere  in  a  household, 
it  is  there.  There  1  have  always  and  only  found  them." 

And  there  they  did  dw,ll  of  a  truth.  1  felt  their  force,  and 
so  did  my  companion.  William,  indeed,  was  so  absolutely 
charmed  with  .Julia  Grafton,  that  1  began  to  apprehend  that  he 
would  not  only  forget  his  betrothed,  but  his  journey  also  —  a 
journey  which,  I  doubt  not,  the  reader,  agreeing  with  myself, 
would  have  us  instantly  resume.  But  we  had  consented  to 
stay  with  our  friendly  host  that  night ;  and  before  we  retired 
we  made  all  necessary  imjuiries  touching  his  debtor.  Colonel 
Grafton  gave  my  friend  little  encouragement -on  the  subject  of 
his  claim. 

"  I  am  almost  sorry,"  he  said,  "  that  I  endorsed  that  man's 
note.  I  fear  I  shall  have  to  pay  it ;  not  that  I  regard  the  loss, 
but  that  it  will  make  me  the  more  reluctant  hereafter  to  assist 
other  poor  men  in'  the  same  manner.  The  dishonesty  of  one 
beginner  in  this  way  affects  the  fortunes  of  a  thousand  others, 
who  are  possibly  free  from  his  or  any  failings  of  the  kind. 
When  I  signed  the  note  for  Webber,  he  was  *»ny  o\rerscer,  but 
disposed  to  set  up  for  himself.  I  had  fourd  him  honest  —  or, 
rather,  I  had  never  found  him  dishonest.  If  he  was,  he  had 
rogue's  cunning  enough  to  conceal  it.  Since  he  lefi,  me,  how- 
evei  he  has  become  an  object  of  suspicion  to  the  whole  neigh- 


140  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

horhood,  and  many  arc  the  tales  which  I  hear  of  his  miscon 
duct.  It  is  not  known  how  he  lives.  A  miserable  patch  of 
corn  and  one  of  potatoes  form  his  only  pretence  as  a  farmer 
and  to  these  he  pays  so  little  attention,  that  his  apology  ii 
openly  laughed  at.  The  cattle  are  commonly  in  the  cornfield 
ai.d  the  hogs  do  what  they  please  with  the  potato-patch.  1L 
docs  not  see,  or  does  not  care  to  see.  He  is  seldom  at  home 
and  you  may  have  to  return  to-morrow  without  finding  him 
If  so,  scruple  not.  to  make  my  house  your  home  si  long  as  i- 
may  serve  your  purpose  and  prove  agreeable." 

We  thanked  him  with  due  frankness,  and  he  pioceeded:  — 

"  Tlws  man  has  no  known  resources  whatsoever,  yet  he  is  sul 
d:>m  without  money.  He  is  lavish  of  it,  and  must  get  i*  easily. 
It  is  commonly  thought  that  he  gambles,  and  is  connected  with 
a  vast  association  of  gamblers  that  live  upon  the  steamboats, 
and  harass  the  country  from  Georgia  to  Louisiana,  assessing  the 
unwary  traveller  wherever  they  meet  with  him;  and  you  know 
how  many  thoughtless,  confident  youth  we  have,  who  lose  their 
money  from  an  unwillingness  to  believe  that  they  can  be  out 
witted  by  their  neighbor." 

"  My  eye,  as  these  words  were  spoken,  caught  that  of  Wil 
liam,  which  turned  away  in  confusion  from  my  glance.  I  felt 
mischievous  enough  to  relate  our  adventure  at  the  Tuscaloosa 
tavern,  but  Colonel  Grafton  talked  too  well,  and  we  were  both 
too  much  interested  in  what  he  said,  to  desire  to  interrupt  him. 
He  proceeded :  — 

"  It  is  even  said  and  supposed  by  some  that  he  does  worse  — 
that  he  robs  where  he  can  not  win,  and  seizes  where  he  can  not 
cheat.  I  am  not  of  this  opinion.  Rogues  as  well  as  honest 
men  find  it  easy  enough  to  get  along  in  our  country  without 
walking  the  highway ;  and,  though  I  know  him  to  be  bold 
enough  to  be  a  ruffian,  I  doubt  whether  such  would  be  his  pol 
icy.  My  notion  is  that  he  is  a  successful  gambler,  and,  as  such, 
if  you  find  him  at  home,  I  doubt  not  that  you  will  get  your 
m>  ;iey.  At  least,  such  is  my  hope,  for  your  sake,  as  well  as 
017  own.  If  you  do,  Mr.  Carrington,  you  will  trust  again,  and 
I  —  yes  —  I  will  endorse  ajrain  the  poor  man's  promise  to  pay." 

"And  how  far  from  you  is  me  residence  of  this  man?"  was 
my  question. 


A   FOREST   HOME.  141 

"From  twelve  to  fourteen  miles,  and  through  a  miserably 
wild  country.  I  do  not  envy  you  the  ride ;  you  will  have  an 
up-hill  journey  of  it  full  two-thirds  of  the  route,  and  a  cheerless 
one  throughout.  I  trust  you  may  not  take  it  in  vain ;  but, 
whether  you  do  or  not,  you  must  return  this  way.  It  is  your 
nearest  route  to  Columbus,  and  1  can  put  you  on  your  way  by 
a  short  cut  which  you  could  not  find  yourself.  I  shall,  of  course, 
expect  you." 

Such  was  the  amount  of  our  conference  with  this  excellent  man 
that  night.  We  separated  at  twelve  o'clock  — a  late  hour  in  the 
country,  but  the  evening  had  passed  too  pleasantly  to  permit  us  to 
feel  it  so.  •  A  cheerful  breakfast  in  the  morning,  and  a  renewal  of  all 
those  pleasant  thoughts  and  images  which  had  fascinated  us  the 
night  before,  made  us  hesitate  to  leave  this  charming  family  ;  and 
slow  were  the  lirst  movements  which  carried  us  from  the  happy  ter 
ritory.  Well  provided  with  directions  for  finding  the  way,  and  cau 
tion?  to  be  circumspect  and  watchful,  we  set  out  for  the  dwelling  of 
OUT  suspicious  debtor. 


142  RICHARD  HURDIS. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

MAT    WEBBEK. 

"Old  Giaffar  sat  in  his  divan, 

Deep  thought  was  in  his  aged  eye; 
And  though  the  face  of  mussulman 

Not  oft  betrays  to  standers-by 
The  mind  within  —  well  skilled  to  hide 
All  but  unconquerable  pride  — 
His  pensive  cheek  and  pondering  brow 
Did  more  than  he  was  wont  avow."— Bride  of  Abydos. 

OUR  host  had  in  no  respect  exaggerated  the  tcdiousness  of 
our  journey.  Perhaps  it  became  doubly  so  to  us  from  the  pleas 
ant  consciousness,  fresh  in  our  minds,  of  the  few  preceding  hours 
which  had  been  so  unqualifiedly  delightful.  The  hills  rose  be 
fore  us,  and  we  felt  it  to  be  indeed  toilsome  to  ascend  them, 
when  we  knew  that  by  such  ascent  we  only  threw  them  as  bar 
riers  between  us  and  the  spot  to  which  we  both  felt  every  dis 
position  to  return.  It  is  strange  how  susceptible  to  passing  and 
casual  influences  arc  the  strongest  among  us.  Let  our  pride  not 
rise  in  our  path  as  a  dogged  opponent,  and  what  flexibility  is 
ours — what  may  we  not  become  —  what  not  achieve !  How 
lovely  will  seem  place  and  person,  if,  when  they  commend  them 
selves  to  our  affections,  they  forbear  to  assail  or  offend  our  pride ! 
I  could  tear  myself  from  the  dwelling  of  my  childhood  —  from 
the  embrace  of  the  fondest  of  mothers  —  from  all  the  sympathies 
and  ties  to  which  I  had  been  accustomed— yea,  from  the  sight 
of  her  to  whom  all  my  hopes  had  been  addressed  —  in  obedience 
to  this  arbitrary  influence  ;  and,  failing  to  derive  even  the  cold 
est  satisfaction  from  friends,  and  family,  and  birthplace,  could 
yet  be  sensible  of  pleasure  derived  from  the  contemplation  of  a 
strange  home,  and  a  passing  intercourse  with  strangers,  Per- 


MAT   WEBBER.  143 

haps  it  may  be  safe  to  assert  that  the  greatest  enemy  to  our 
affections  is  our  mind.  The  understanding,  even  among  the 
weakest — as  if  conscious  of  its  superior  destiny — will  assert  its 
sway,  and  sacrifice  the  heart  which  depends  on  it  for  life,  in 
deference  to  that  miserable  vanity  which  lives  only  on  its  diseases. 
I  have  alwaj's  been  conscious  of  this  sort  of  warfare  going  on 
with  me.  I  have  spoken  the  sarcasm  to  the  loved  one,  even  when  my 
own  bosom  felt  the  injustice,  and  when  my  heart,  with  the  keenest 
sympathy,  quivered  also  with  the  pang. 

We  had  ridden,  perhaps,  an  hour,  and  were  winding  our  way 
down  from  gorge  to  gorge  among  a  pile  of  hills  of  which  there 
seemed  to  be  no  end,  when  we  came  suddenly  upon  three  men  sitting 
among  the  bushes  at  a  little  distance  from  the  road-side.  Two  of 
them  we  knew  at  the  first  glance  to  be  our  chamber  companions  at 
Tuscaloosa.  The  third  we  had  neither  of  us  seen  before.  He 
was  a  short,  thick-set  person  of  black  hair  and  unimposing 
features,  presenting  in  his  dress,  a  singular  contrast  to  the  trim 
and  gaudy  caparison  of  his  comrades.  They  wrere  sitting  around 
a  log,  and  may  have  been  eating  for  aught  we  knew.  They  had 
something  between  them  which  called  for  their  close  scrutiny,  and 
seemed  so  well  to  receive  it  that  we  completely  surprised  them. 
When  they  heard  us,  there  was  a  visible  start,  and  one  of  the  two 
gamblers  started  to  his  feet.  I  rode  on  without  giving  them  the  least 
notice  ;  but,  thoughtless  as  ever,  William  half  advanced  to  them, 
and  in  a  good-humored,  dare-devil  style  of  expression,  cried  out  to 
them  aloud  : — 

"Halloo,  my  good  fellows,  do  you  feel  like  another  game  to 
day  ? " 

What  their  answer  was,  and  whether  they  sufficiently  heard 
to  understand  his  words  or  not,  I  can  not  say  —  they  stood 
motionless  and  watched  our  progress  ;  and  I  conceived  it  fortunate 
that  I  was  able  to  persuade  my  companion  to  ride  on  without  farther 
notice.  He  did  not  relish  the  indifference  with  which  they 
seemed  to  regard  us,  and  a  little  pause  and  provocation  might 
have  brought  us  into  a  regular  fight.  Perhaps  —  the  issue 
of  our  journey  considered  —  such  would  have  been  a  fortunate 
event.  We  might  not  have  suffered  half  so  much  as  in  the  end 
we  did. 

"Now  could  I  take  either  or  both  of  those  fellows  by  the  neck, 


144  KICHARD    HU11DIS. 

and  rattle  their  pates  together,  for  the  fun  of  it,"  was  the  speech  of 
my  companion,  as  we  rode  off. 

There  was  a  needless  display  of  valor  in  this,  and  my  answer 
exhibited  a  more  cautious  temper.  Rash  enough  myself  at  times,  I 
yet  felt  the  necessity  of  tempcrateness  when  in  company  with  one  so 
very  thoughtless  as  my  friend. 

' '  Ay,  and  soil  your  fingers  and  bruise  your  knuckles  for  your 
pains.  If  they  are  merely  dirty  dogs,  you  would  surely  soil  your 
fingers,  and  if  they  were  at  all  insolent,  you  would  run  some  risk  of 
getting  them  broken.  The  least  we  have  to  do  with  all  such  people, 
the  better  for  all  parties  —  I,  at  least,  have  no  ambition  to  couple 
with  them  either  in  love  or  hostility.  Enough  to  meet  them 
in  their  own  way  when  they  cross  the  path,  and  prevent  our 
progress." 

"  Which  these  chaps  will  never  do,  I  warrant  you." 

"  We  have  less  need  to  cross  theirs  —  the  way  is  broad  enough  for 
both  of  us.  But  let  us  on,  since  our  road  grows  more  level,  though 
not  less  wild.  I  am  tired  of  this  jade  pace  —  our  nags  will  sleep  at 
last,  and  stop  at  the  next  turning." 

We  quickened  our  pace,  and,  in  another  hour  we  approached  the 
confines  of  our  debtor's  habitation.  We  knew  it  by  the  generally 
sterile  and  unprepossessing  aspect  of  everything  around  it.  The 
description  which  Colonel  Grafton  had  given  us  was  so  felicitous 
that  we  could  have  no  doubts  ;  and,  riding  up  to  the  miserable 
cabin  we  were  fortunate  enough  to  meet  in  proper  person  the  man  we 
sought. 

He  stood  at  the  entrance,  leaning  sluggishly  against  one  of 
the  doorposts— a  slightly-built  person,  of  slovenly  habits,  an 
air  coarse,  inferior,  unprepossessing,  and  dark  lowering  features. 
His  dress  was  shabby,  his  hat  mashed  down  on  one  side  of  his 
head — his  arms  thrust  to  the  elbows  in  the  pockets  of  his 
breeches,  and  he  wore  the  moccasins  of  an  Indian.  Still,  there 
was  something  in  the  keen,  lively  glances  of  his  small  black 
eye,  that  denoted  a  restless  and  quick  character,  and  his  thin, 
closely-pressed  lips  were  full  of  promptness  and  decision.  His 
skin  was  tanned  almost  yellow,  and  his  long,  uncombed  but 
flowing  hair,  black  as  a  coal,  falling  down  upon  his  neck 
which  was  bare,  suited  well,  while  contrasting  strongly  with  his 
swarthy  lineaments.  He  received  us  with  civility  —  advanced 


MAT   WEBBER.  145 

from  his  tottering  doorsteps  on  our  approach,  and  held  our  horses 
while  we  dismounted. 

"You  remember  me,  Mr.  Webber? "said  my  companion  calling 
him  by  name. 

"  Mr.  Carrington,  I  believe,"  was  the  reply;  "  I  don't  forget  easily. 
Let  me  take  your  horses,  gentlemen?" 

There  was  a  composure  in  the  fellow's  manners  that  almost 
amounted  to  dignity.  Perhaps,  this  tc:  was  against  him.  AVhere 
should  he  learn  such  habits  —  such  an  air  ?  Whence  could  come 
the  assurance  —  the  thorough  ease  and  self-complacency  of  his 
deportment  ?  Such  confidence  can  spring  from  two  sources  only 
—  the  breeding  of  blood — the  systematic  habits  of  an  uumingled 
family,  admitting  of  no  connection  with  strange  races,  and 
becoming  aristocratic  from  concentration  — or  the  recklessness  of 
one  indifferent  to  social  claims,  and  obeying  no  other  master  than  his 
own  capricious  mood. 

We  were  conducted  into  his  cabin  and  provided  with  seats. 
Wretched  and  miserable  as  everything  seemed  about  the  prem 
ises,  our  host  showed  no  feeling  of  disquiet  or  concern  on  this 
account.  He  made  no  apology ;  drew  forth  the  rude  chairs 
covered  with  bull's  hides  ;  and  proceeded  to  get  the  whiskey 
and  sugar,  the  usual  beverage  presented  in  that  region  to  the 
guest. 

"  You  have  ridden  far,  and  a  sup  of  whiskey  will  do  you 
good,  gentlemen.  From  Tuscaloosa  this  morning  —  you've  ridden 
well." 

William  corrected  his  error  by  telling  where  we  had  stayed  last 
night.  A  frown  insensibly  gathered  above  the  brow  of  the  man  as 
he  heard  the  name  of  Colonel  Grafton. 

"The  colonel  and  myself  don't  set  horses  now  altogether,"  was 
the  quick  remark,  "he's  a  rich —  I'm  a  poor  man." 

"  And  yet  I  should  scarce  think  him  the  person  to  find  cause  of 
disagreement  between  himself  and  any  man  from  a  difference  of  con 
dition,"  was  the  reply  of  William  to  this  remark. 

"You  don't  know  him,  Mr.  Carrington,  I  reckon.  For  a  long 
time  I  didn't  know  him  myself —  I  was  his  overseer,  you  know,  and 
it  was  then  he  put  his  name  to  that  little  bit  of  paper,  that  I  s'pose 
you  come  about  now." 

Carrington  nodded. 


146  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

"Well,"  continued  the  debtor,  "so  long  as  I  was  his  overseer, 
things  went  on  smoothly  ;  but  the  colonel  don't  like  to  see  men 
setting  up  for  themselves,  and  tried  to  keep  me  from  it,  but  he 
couldn't ;  and  since  I've  left  him,  he  doesn't  look  once  in  the  year 
over  to  my  side  of  the  country.  He  don't  like  me  now,  I  know. 
Did  you  hear  him  say  nothing  about  me?  " 

I  could  detect  the  keen  black  eye  of  the  speaker,  as  he  finished, 
watching  the  countenance  of  Carrington  as  he  waited  for  the  reply. 
I  feared  that  the  perfect  frankness  of  William  might  have  betrayed 
him  into  a  partial  revelation  of  Colonel  Grafton's  information  ;  but 
he  evaded  the  inquiry  with  some  address. 

"Yes;  he  gave  us  full  directions  how  to  find  your  place,  and 
framed  us  that  we  might  not  find  you  at  home.  He  said  you 
travelled  a  great  deal  about  the  country,  and  didn't  plant  much. 
You  deal  in  merchandise,  perhaps  ?  " 

The  fellow  looked  somewhat  disappointed  as  he  replied  in  the 
negative.  But  dismissing  everything  like  expression  from  his 
face,  in  the  next  instant  he  asked  if  we  had  met  with  any  trav 
ellers  on  the  road.  I  replied  quickly  by  stating  with  the  ut 
most  brevity,  the  fact  that  we  had  met  three,  whose  appearance 
I  briefly  described  without  giving  any  particulars,  and  studiously 
suppressed  the  previous  knowledge  which  we  had  of  the  gam 
blers  at  Tuscaloosa;  but  I  had  scarcely  finished  when  William, 
with  his  wonted  thoughtlessness,  took  up  the  tale  where  I  had 
left  it  incomplete  and  omitted  nothing.  The  man  looked  grave, 
and  when  he  was  ended,  contented  himself  with  remarking  that 
he  knew  no  person  like  those  described,  and  inquired  if  we  had 
not  met  with  others.  But,  with  my  wonted  suspiciousness  of 
habit,  I  fancied  that  there  was  a  something  in  his  countenance 
that  told  a  different  story,  and  whether  there  were  reason  for 
this  fancy  or  not,  I  was  inly  persuaded  that  our  debtor  and  the 
two  gamblers  were  birds  of  a  feather.  It  will  be  seen  in  the  sequel 
that  I  was  not  mistaken.  There  was  an  awkward  pause  in  the 
conversation,  for  Carrington,  like  a  man  not  accustomed  to  business 
seemed  loth  to  ask  about  his  money.  He  was  relieved  by  the 
debtor. 

"Well,  Mr.  Carrington,"  he  said,  "you  come,  I  s'pose,  about 
that  little  paper  of  mine.  You  want  your  money,  and,  to  say 
truth,  you  ought  to  have  had  it  some  time  ago.  I  would  have 


MAT   WEBBER,  147 

Sent  it  to  you,  but  I  couldn't  get  any  safe  hand  going  down 
into  your  parts." 

Carrington  interrupted  him. 

"That's  no  matter,  Mr.  Webber,  I  didn't  want  the  money, 
to  say  truth,  till  just  now  ;  but  if  you  can  let  me  have  it  now, 
it  will  be  as  good  to  me  as  if  you  had  sent  it  to  mo  six  months 
ago.  I'm  thinking  to  buy  a  little  land  in  Mississippi,  if  I  can 
get  it  moderate,  and  can  get  a  long  credit  for  the  best  part  of 
it,  but  it  will  be  necessary  to  put  down  something,  you  know, 
to  clinch  the  bargain,  and  I  thought  I- might  as  well  look  to 
you  for  that." 

'  To  be  sure  —  certain — it's  only  reasonable;  but  if  you  think 
to  go  into  Mississippi  to  get  land  now  on  a  long  credit,  and 
hardly  any  cash,  Mr.  Carrington,  you'll  find  yourself  mightily 
mistaken.  You  must  put  down  the  real  grit,  if  you  want  to 
do  anything  in  the  land-market." 

"  Oh,    yes,    I   expect   to   put    down    some — 

The  acute  glance  of  my  eye  arrested  the  speech  of  my 
thoughtless  companion.  In  two  minutes  more  lie  would  prob 
ably  have  declared  the  very  amount  he  had  in  possession,  and  all 
the  purposes  he  had  in  view.  I  do  not  know,  however,  but 
that  the  abrupt  pause  and  silence  which  followed  my  interposi 
tion,  revealed  quite  as  much  to  the  cunning  debtor  as  the  words 
of  my  companion  would  have  done.  The  bungling  succession 
of  half  formed  and  incoherent  sentences  which  William  uttered 
to  hide  the  truth,  and  conceal  that  which  by  this  time,  was 
sufficiently  told,  perhaps  contributed  to  impress  him  with  an 
idea  of  much  greater  wealth  in  our  possession  than  was  even  the 
case.  But,  whatever  may  have  been  his  thoughts,  his  counte 
nance  was  too  inflexibly  indifferent  to  convey  to  us  their  char 
acter,  lie  was  stolid  and  seemingly  unobservant  to  the  last 
degree,  scarcely  giving  the  slightest  heed  to  the  answers  which 
his  own  remarks  and  inquiries  demanded.  At  length,  abruptly 
returning  to  the  business  in  hand,  he  spoke  thus: — 

"  Well,  now,  Mr.  Carrington,  I'll  have  to  give  3*011  a  little 
disappointment.  I  can't  pa}'  3"ou  to-day,  much  as  I  would  like  to 
do  it  ;  for,  3*011  see,  my  mone}'  is  owing  to  me,  and  is  scattered 
all  about  the  neighborhood.  If  3*011  could  take  a  bed  with  me 
to-night,  and  be  satisfied  to  put  off  travelling  for  a  da3T,  I  could 


RICHARD   HUKPTP. 

you,  I  think,  for  certain,  to  give  yon  the  whole  of  your 
money  by  to-morrow  night.  I  can  get  it,  for  that  matter,  from 
a  friend,  but  I  should  have  to  ride  about  fifteen  or  twenty  miles 
for  it,  and  that  couldn't  be  done  to-day." 

"  Nor  would  I  wish  it,  Mr.  Webber,"  was  the  reply  of  Wil 
liam.  "  To-morrow  will  answer,  and  though  we  are  obliged 
to  you  for  your  offer  of  a  bed  to-night,  yet  we  have  a  previous 
promise  to  return  and  spend  the  night  with  Colonel  Grafton." 

The  brows  of  the  man  again  blackened,  but  ho  spoke  in  cool, 
deliberate  accents,  though  his  language  was  that  of  enmity 
and  dissatisfaction. 

"Ay,  I  supposed  as  much.  Colonel  Grafton  has  a  mighty 
fine  house,  and  everything  in  good  fi>:  —  he  can  better  aecom 
modate  fine  gentlemen  than  a  poor  man  like  me.  Yon  can  cio 
what  you  like  about  that,  Mr.  Carrington  —  stay  with  me  to-night, 
or  come  at  mid-day  to-morrow  —  all  the  same  to  me  —  you  shall 
Btill  have  your  money.  I'll  get  it  for  you,  at  all  hazards,  if  it's 
only  to  get  rid  of  all  further  obligation  to  that  man.  I've  been 
obligated  to  him  too  long  already,  and  I'll  wipe  out  the  score 
to-morrow,  or  I'm  no  man  myself." 

On  the  subject  of  Webber's  motive  for  paying  his  debt,  the 
creditor,  of  course,  had  but  little  to  say.  But  th«  pertinacity 
jf  the  fellow  on  another  topic  annoyed  me. 

"You  speak,"  said  I,  "of  the  greater  wealth  and  better  ac 
.•ommodations  of  Colonel  Grafton,  as  prompting  us  to  prefer  his 
hospitality  to  yours.  My  good  sir,  why  should  you  do  us  thi? 
ATong  1  What  do  you  see  in  either  of  us  to  think  such  things 
Wre  are  both  poor  men  —  poorer,  perhaps,  than  yourself — I 
know  I  am,  and  believe  that  such,  too,  is  the  case  with  my  com 
panion." 

"  L)o  you  though  ?"  said  the  fellow,  coolly  interrupting  me. 
I  felt  that  my  blood  was  warming;  he,  perhaps,  saw  it,  for  he 
instantly  went  on *. — 

"  I  don't  mean  any  offence  to  you,  gentlemen  —  very  far  from 
it  —  but  we  all  very  well  know  what  temptations  are  in  a  rich 
man's  house  more  than  those  in  a  poor  innn's.  I'm  a  little 
jealous,  you  see,  that's  all;  for  I  look  upon  myself  -°.3  just  ai 
good  as  Colonel  Grafton  any  day,  and  t'j  find  people  go  from 
iny  -loor  to  look  for  his,  is  a  sort  of  slight,  you  see,  ibat  I  can't 


MAT     WEBBER.  149 

always  stomach.  But  I  suppose  you  arc  another  guess  sort  of 
people ;  and  I  should  be  sorry  if  you  found  anything  amiss  in 
what  I  say.  I'm  a  poor  man,  it's  true,  but,  by  God !  I'm  an 
honest  one,  and  come  when  you  will,  Mr.  Carrmgton,  I'll  take 
up  that  bit  of  paper  almost  as  soon  as  you  bring  it." 

We  drank  with  the  fellow  at  parting,  and  left  him  on  tolera 
bly  civil  terms;  but  there  was  something  about  him  which 
troubled  and  made  me  apprehensive  and  suspicious.  His  habits 
of  life  —  as  we  saw  them  —  but  ill  compared  with  the  measured 
and  deliberate  hiauners  and  tone  >f  voice  which  he  habitually 
employed.  The  calmness  ana  dignity  of  one,  conscious  of 
power  and  practised  in  authority,  were  conspicuous  in  every 
thing  he  said  and  did.  Such  characteristics  never  mark  the 
habitually  unemployed  man.  What,  then,  wci-c  Ins  occupa 
tions?  Time  will  show.  Enough,  for  the  present,  to  kno^r 
that  he  was  even  then  meditating  as  dark  a  piece  of  villany,  a* 
the  domestic  hiv/niaii  of  the  frontier  was  ever  called  upon  fcf 
record 


150  KICHARD   IIUliDlS. 


CHAPTER    XX. 

THE   OUTLAWS. 

* 

" They  arc  a  lawless  brood, 

But  roug-h  in  form  nor  mild  in  mood; 

And  every  creed  and  every  race, 

With  them  hath  found  — may  find  a  phice."— Byron. 

WE  had  not  well  departed  from  the  dwelling  of  the  debtor 
before  it  was  occupied  by  the  two  gamblers,  whose  merits  we 
had  discovered  in  Tuscaloosa,  and  the  third  person  whom  we 
had  seen  with  them  011  the  road-side.  They  had  watched  and 
followed  our  steps ;  and  by  a  better  knowledge  of  the  roads 
than  we  possessed,  they  had  been  enabled  to  arrive  at  the  same 
spot  without  being  seen,  and  to  lurk  in  waiting  for  the  moment 
of  our  departure  before  they  made  their  appearance.  No  sooner 
were  we  gone,  however,  than  they  emerged  from  their  place  of 
concealment,  and  made  for  the  house.  A  few  words  sufficed 
to  tell  their  story  to  their  associate,  for  such  he  was. 

"Do  you  know  the  men  that  have  left  you?  What  was  their 
business  with  you?" 

They  were  answered  ;  and  they  then  revealed  what  they 
knew.  They  dwelt  upon  the  large  sum  in  bills  which  William 
had  incautiously  displayed  to  their  eyes;  and,  exaggerating  its 
amount,  they  insisted  not  the  less  upon  the  greater  amount 
which  they  assumed,  nay,  asserted,  to  be  in  my  possession  —  a 
prize,  both  sums  being  considered,  which  they  coolly  enough 
contended,  would  be  sufficient  to  reward  them  for  the  most 
extreme  and  summary  efforts  to  obtain  it. 

"We  must  pursue  them  instantly,"  said  the  scoundrel,  who 
had  sought  to  bully  us  at  the  tavern.  "  There  arc  four  of  us, 
and  we  can  soon  overhaul  them." 

"They  are  armed  to  the  teeth,   George,"  said  our  debtor. 


THE   OUTLAWS.  151 

"We  have  seen  to  that,"  was  the  reply.  "Ben  had  an  op 
portunity  to  inspect  their  pistols,  which  they  wisely  left  in  their 
chamber  when  they  went  down  to  eat  ;  and  with  his  usual  desire 
to  keep  his  neighbors  from  doing  harm,  he  knocked  out  the  prim 
ing,  and  for  the  old  flints,  he  put  in  line  new  ones,  fashioned 
out  of  wood.  These  will  do  no  mischief,  I  warrant  you,  to  any 
body,  and  so  let  us  set  on.  If  my  figures  do  not  fail  me,  these 
chaps  have  money  enough  about  them  to  pay  our  way,  for 
the  next  three  months,  from  Tennessee  to  New  Orleans  and 
back." 

His  proposal  was  seconded  by  his  immediate  companions,  but  the 
debtor,  with  more  deliberateness  and  effectual  judgment,  restrained 
them. 

"I'm  against  riding  after  them  now,  though  all  be  true,  as  you 
say,  about  the  money  in  their  hands." 

"  What !  will  you  let  them  escape  us  ?  Are  you  growing  chicken, 
Mat,  in  your  old  days  ?  You  refuse  to  be  a  striker,  do  you  ?  It's 
beneath  your  wisdom  and  dignity,  1  suppose?"  said  our  bullying 
gambler,  who  went  by  the  name  of  George. 

"Shut  up,  George,  and  don't  be  foolish,"  was  the  cool  response. 
"You  ought  to  know  me  by  this  time,  and  one  thing  is  certain,  I 
know  enough  of  you  !  You  talk  of  being  a  striker!  Why,  man, 
you  mistake!  You're  a  chap  for  a  trick  —  for  making  a  pitfall  — 
but  not  for  shoving  the  stranger  into  it  !  Be  quiet,  and  I'll  put 
you  at  3'our  best  business.  These  men  come  back  here  at  mid-day 
to-morrow." 

"  Ha  !  — the  devil  they  do  !  " 

"Ay;  they  dine  with  me,  and  then  return  to  Colonel  Graf- 
ton's.  To  one  of  them,  as  I  told  you  —  the  younger  of  the  two,  a 
full-faced,  good-natured  looking  fellow  —  I  owe  a  hundred  or  two 
dollars.  He  hopes  to  get  it  by  coming.  Now,  it's  for  you  to  say  if 
he  will  or  not.  I  leave  it  to  you.  I  can  get  the  money  easily 
enough  ;  and  if  you've  got  any  better  from  that  camp-meeting  that 
you  went  to,  on  the  'Bigby,  you  will  probably  say  I  ought  to  pay 
him,  but  if  not — " 

"Pshaw!"  was  the  universal  answer.  "What  nonsense!  Pay 
the  devil !  The  very  impudence  of  the  fellow  in  coming  here, 
to  make  collections,  should  be  enough  to  make  us  cut  1m 
throat." 


152  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

"Shall  we  do  that,  men?"  was  the  calm  inquiry  of  the 
debtor. 

"It's  best!"  was  the  bloody  answer  of  the  gambler,  George. 
Cowards  of  bad  morals  are  usually  the  most  sanguinary  people  when 
passion  prompts  and  opportunity  occurs.  "  I'm  clear,"  continued  the 
same  fellow,  "for  making  hash  of  these  chaps.  There  is  one  of 
them — the  slenderer  fellow  with  the  long  nose,  (meaning  me) — his 
d — d  insolence  to  me  in  Tuscaloosa  is  enough  to  convict  him.  The 
sooner  we  fix  him  the  better." 

"George  seems  unwilling  to  give  that  chap  a  chance.  I  rather 
think  it  would  be  better  to  let  him  go  in  order  that  the  two  might 
fight  out  their  quarrel.  Eh,  George  !  what  say  you  ?  " 

The  host  proposed  a  cutting  question,  but  in  his  own  cool 
and  measured  mariner.  It  did  not  seem  to  fall  harmlessly  upon 
the  person  to  whom  it  was  addressed.  His  features  grew  dark 
ly  red  with  the  ferocity  of  his  soul,  but  his  reply  was  framed  with 
a  just  knowledge  of  the  fearless  nature  of  the  man  who  had  pro 
voked  him. 

"You  know,  Mat,  I  can  fight  well  enough  when  it  pleases  me  to 
do  so." 

"True,"  was  the  answer  ;  "nobody  denies  that.  I  only  meant  to 
say  that  you  don't  often  find  pleasure  in  it ;  nor,  indeed,  George,  do1 
I ;  and  that's  one  reason  which  I  have  for  disagreeing  with  you  about 
these  stranger-chaps. " 

"What ! "  said  one  of  the  companions,  " you  won't  lift? " 
"  Who  says  I  won't  ?    To  be  sure  I  will.     We'll  lift  what  we  can, 
and  empty  the  sack  ;  but  I'm  not  for  slitting  any  more  pipes  if  I  can 
help  it — not  in  this  neighborhood,  at  least." 

"Mat's  going  to  join  the  methodists.  He'll  eat  devil's  broth,  but 
dip  no  meat,"  said  George. 

"No — if  it's  needful,  I'll  eat  both ;  but  one  I  don't  like  so  much  as. 
the  other,  and,  when  I  can  get  the  one  without  the  other,  I'll  always 
prefer  to  do  so." 

"But  they'll  blab." 

"So  they  may;  but  what  care  we  about  that,  when  we're  going 
where  they  can't  find  us  ?  Let  us  keep  them  quiet  till  to-morrow 
midnight,  and  then  they  may  use  their  pipes  quite  as  much  as  they 
please.  By  that  time  we  shall  all  be  safe  in  the  'nation,'  and  thft 
sheriff  may  whistle  for  us." 


THE   OUTLAWS.  153 

"  Well,  as  to  that  part  of  the  plan,"  said  George,  "  I'm  opposed  to 
it  now,  and  have  always  been  against  it.  I  see  no  reason  to  leave  a 
country  where  we've  done,  and  where  we're  still  doing,  so  excellent  a 
business." 

"What  business? — no  striking  for  a  week  or  more! "  said  one  of  the 
party. 

"But  what's  the  chance  to-morrow?  These  very  chaps  show 
us  the  goodness  of  the  business  we  may  do  by  holding  on  a 
time  longer.  Here's  hundreds  going  for  the  '  nation '  and  there 
abouts  every  week,  and  most  of  them  have  the  real  stuff.  They 
sell  out  in  the  old  states,  raise  all  the  cash  they  can,  and  give 
us  plenty  of  picking  if  we'll  look  out  and  wait  for  it.  But  we 
mustn't  be  so  milk-hearted.  There's  no  getting  on  in  safety  if 
we  only  crop  the  beast's  tail  and  let  it  run.  We  can  stay  here 
six  months  longer,  if  we  stop  the  mouth  of  the  sack  when  we  empty 
it." 

"  Ah,  George,  you  are  quite  too  brave  in  council,  and  too  full  of 
counsel  in  the  field,"  was  the  almost  indifferent  reply  of  the  debtor  ; 
"  to  stay  here  six  weeks,  would  be  to  hang  us  all.  The  people  are 
getting  too  thick  and  too  sober  between  this  and  'Bigby.  They'll  cut 
us  off  frorn  running  after  a  while.  Now,  you  are  too  brave  to  run  ; 
you'd  rather  fight  and  die  any  day  than  that.  Not  so  with  me; 
I'm  for  lifting  and  striking  anywhere,  so  long  as  the  back 
door's  open  ;  but  the  moment  you  shut  up  that,  I'm  for  othei 
lodgings.  But  enough  of  this.  We've  made  the  law  for  going 
already,  and  it's  a  mere  waste  of  breath  to  talk  over  that  matter  now. 
There's  other  business  before  us,  and,  if  you'll  let  me,  we'll  talk 
about  that." 

"  Crack  away  !  "  was  the  answer. 

"  These  lads  come  here  to-morrow — they  dine  with  me.  The 
old  trick  is  the  easiest ;  we'll  rope  them  to  their  chairs,  and 
then  search  their  pockets.  They  carry  their  bills  in  their  bo 
soms,  I  reckon  ;  and  if  they've  got  specie,  it's  in  the  saddle 
bags.  We  can  rope  them,  rob  them,  and  leave  them  at  table. 
All  the  expense  is  a  good  dinner,  and  we'll  leave  them  that  too, 
as  it  will  be  some  hours,  I  reckon,  before  anybody  will  come 
along  to  help  them  out  of  their  hobble,  and  they'll  be  hungry 
when  their  first  trouble's  fairly  over.  By  that  time,  we'll  bo 
mighty  nigh  Columbus ;  and  if  the  lads  have  the  money  you 

7* 


154  RICHARD   HUI1DIS. 

.say  they  have,  it  will  help  us  handsomely  through  the  'nation.' 
It  will  be  a  good  finishing  stroke  to  our  business  in  this  quar 
ter." 

The  plan  thus  briefly  stated  was  one  well  understood  by  the 
fraternity,  as  it  had  been  practiced  in  their  robberies  more  than  once 
before ;  and  it  received  the  general  approbation.  The  bully, 
George,  was  opposed  to  leaving  us  alive,  but  he  was  compelled  to 
.yield  his  bloody  wishes  in  compliance  with  the  more  humane  resolu 
tion  of  the  rest. 

"I  am  against  cutting  more  throats  than  I  can  help,  George," 
said  the  calculating  host  ;  "  it's  a  dirty  practice,  and  I  don't  like  it, 
as  it's  always  so  hard  for  me  to  clean  my  hands  and  take  the  spots 
out  of  my  breeches.  Besides,  I  hate  to  sec  a  man  dropped 
like  a  bullock,  never  to  get  up  again.  There's  only  one  chap  in  the 
world  that  I  have  such  a  grudge  against  that  I  should  like 
to  shed  his  blood,  and  even  him  I  should  forgive  if  he  was  only  will 
ing  to  bend  his  neck  when  a  body  meets  him,  and  say  '  How  d'ye 
do  ?'  with  civility." 

' '  Who's  that,  Bill  ? "  demanded  George. 

"  No  matter  about  the  name.  If  I  have  to  cut  his  throat,  I  don't 
care  to  trouble  you  to  help  me." 

"  I  am  willing." 

"Ay,  if  I  hold  him  for  the  knife.  Enough,  George — we'll 
try  you  to-morrow.  You  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  dropping 
the  slip  over  that  fellow  with  the  long  nose.  See  that  you  do 
it  bravely.  If  you  don't  pinion  his  arms,  you  may  feel  his  elbow, 
and  he  looks  very  much  like  a  chap  that  had  bone  and  muscle  to 
spare." 

"I'll  see  to  that — but  suppose  they  refuse  to  dine?"  was  the 
suggestion  of  the  bully. 

"  Why,  then,  we  must  take  them  when  at  the  drink,  or  as  they  go 
through  the  passage.  You  must  watch  your  chance,  and  choose  the 
moment  you  like  best  ;  but  you  who  are  the  strikers  must  be  careful 
to  move  together.  If  you  miss  a  minute,  you  may  have  trouble,  for 
one  will  certainly  come  to  help  the  other,  and  it  may  compel  us  to  use 
the  knife  at  last." 

'  It's  a  shorter  way  to  use  it  at  first,"  said  George. 

"  Perhaps  so — but  let  me  tell  you  it  lasts  much  longer.  The 
business  is  not  dead  with  the  man  ;  and  when  you  have  done 


TEE   OUTLAWS.  lt>0 

»hat  » *rt  of  tiling  once  or  twice,  you'll  find  that  H  calls  for  yon 
to  do  a  Teat  deal  more   business  of  different  kinds  which  will 

O 

be  not  only  troublesome  but  disagreeable.     1  tell  you,  as  I  told 
you  before,  it  is  tbe  very  devil  to  wash  out  the  stains." 

This  affair  settled,  others  of  like  nature,  but  of  less  immediate 
performance,  came  up  for  consideration  ;  but  these  need  not  be 
related  now.  One  fact,  however,  may  be  stated.  When  they 
had  resolved  upon  our  robbery,  thev"  set  themselves  down  to 
play  for  the  results;  and.  having  made  a  supposed  estimate  of 
our  effects,  they  staked  their  several  shares  in  moderate  sumfc 
and  won  and  lost  the  moneys  which  th»>y  were,  yet  to  steal  !  It 
may  be  added  that  my  former  opponent,  the  bully  George,  was 
01. e  of  the  most  fortunate  ;  and,  having  won  the  right  from  his 
comrades  to  the  spoils  which  they  wore  yet  to  wi?!,  be  was  the 
most  impatient  for  the  approach  of  the  hour  when  Lie  wi'im^u^i 
wire,  to  be  realized  Let  vjj  now  relate  our  own  progress. 


156  RICHARD   IIURD1S. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

THE   HAPPY   FAMILY. 

"  So  thy  fair  hand,  enamored  fancy  gleans 
The  treasured  pictures  of  a  thousand  scenes ; 
Thy  pencil  traces  on  the  lover's  thought 
Some  cottage  home,  from  towns  and  toil  remote. 
Where  love  and  peace  may  claim  alternate  hours 
With  peace  embosomed  in  Tdalian  bowers  ! 
Remote  from  busy  life's  bewildered  way 
O'er  all  his  heart  shall  taste  and  beauty  sway- 
Free  on  the  sunny  slope,  or  winding  shore, 
With  hermit  steps  to  wonder  and  adore."— CAMPBELL. 

ON  our  return  to  Colonel  Grafton's,  we  were  received  with  a 
welcome  due  rather  to  a  long  and  tried  intimacy,  than  to  our 
new  acquaintance.  There  we  met  a  Mr.  Clifton  —  a  young 
man  about  twenty-five  years  of  age — of  slight,  but  elegant 
figure,  and  a  face  decidedly  one  of  the  most  handsome  I  had 
ever  seen  among  men.  It  Mras  evident  to  me  after  a  little 
space  that  such  also  was  the  opinion  of  Julia  Graf  ton.  Her 
eyes,  when  an  opportunity  offered,  watched  him  narrowly ;  and 
I  was  soon  enabled  to  see  that  the  gentleman  himself  was  as 
siduous  in  those  attentions  which  arc  apt  enough  to  occasion 
love,  and  to  yield  it  opportunity.  I  learned  casually  in  the 
course  of  the  evening,  and  after  the  young  man  had  retired,  what 
I  had  readily  inferred  from  my  previous  observation  —  namely 
that  they  had  been  for  some  time  known  to  each  other.  Mr. 
Clifton's  manners  were  good  —  artless  exceedingly,  and  frank, 
and  he  seemed  in  all  respects,  a  perfect  and  pleasing  gentleman. 
He  left  us  before  night,  alleging  a  necessity  to  ride  some  miles 
on  business  which  admitted  of  no  delay.  I  could  see  the  dis 
appointment  in  the  cheek  of  Julia,  and  the  quivering  of  her 
lovely  lips  was  not  entirely  concealed.  That  night  she  sang 


THE   HAPPY   FAMILY.  157 

as  a  plaintive  ditty,  to  the  mi. sic  of  an  ancient,  but  nrbly -toned 
harpsichord,  and  trembling  but  anticipative  love  was  tne  burden 
of  her  song.  The  obvious  interest  of  these  two  in  each  otber, 
had  the  effect  of  carrying  me  back  to  Marengo —  but  the  vision 
'vhich  encountered  me  there  drove  me  again  into  the  wilder 
ness  and  left  me  no  refuge  but  among  strangers.  I  fancied  that 
1  beheld  the  triumphant  joy  of  John  Ilurdis;  and  the  active 
and  morbid  imagination  completed  the  cruel  torture  by  showing 
me  Mary  Kasterhy  locked  in  his  arms.  My  soul  shrank  from 
the  portraiture  of  my  fancy,  and  I  lapsed  away  into  gloom  and 
silence  in  defiance  of  all  the  friendly  solicitings  of  our  host 
and  his  sweet  family. 

But  my  companion  had  no  sucb  suffering  as  mine,  and  be 
gave  a  free  rein  to  his  tongue,  lie  related  to  Colonel  Grafton 
the  circumstances  attending  our  interview  with  the  debtor,  not 
omitting  the  remarks  of  the  latter  in  reference  to  the  colonel 
himself. 

"  It  matters  not  much,*'  said  the  colonel,  "  what  be  thinks  o* 
me,  but.  the  truth  is,  he  has  not  told  you  the  preci-e  reason  of 
his  hostility.  The  pride  of  the  more  wealthy  is  always  insisted 
upon  by  the  poorer  sort  of  people,  to  account  for  any  differences 
between  themselves  and  their  neighbors.  It  is  idle  to  answe) 
them  on  this  head.  They  themselves  know  better.  If  thej 
confessed  that  the  possession  of  greater  wealth  was  an  occasion 
for  their  constant  hate  or  dislike  they  would  speak  more  to  the 
purpose,  and  with  far  more  justice.  Not  that  I  think  that 
Webber  hates  me  because  I  am  wealthy,  lie  spends  daily 
quite  as  much  money  as  I  do  —  but  he  can  not  so  well  convince 
his  neighbors  that  he  gets  it  as  honestly  ;  and  still  less  can  he 
convince  me  of  the  fact.  Jn  his  own  consciousness  lies  my 
sufficient  justification  for  the  distance  at  which  I  keep  him,  and 
for  that  studied  austerity  of  deportment  ou  my  part  of  which 
he  so  bitterly  complains.  T  am  sorry  for  my  own  sake,  not  lest 
than  his,  that  I  am  forced  to  the  adoption  of  a  habit  which  it> 
jot  natural  to  me  and  far  from  agreeable.  It  gives  me  no  less 
pain  to  avoid  any  of  my  neighbors  than  it  must  give  them  of 
fence.  But  I  act  from  a  calm  conviction  of  duty,  and  this  feT 
lo\v  knows  it.  Let  us  say  no  more  about  him.  It  is  enough 
tha*  he  promts  to  pay  you  your  money  —  lie  can  do  it  if  he 


158  RICHARD 

will;  airl  J  doubt  not  that  he  will  keep  his  promise,  simply  1m 
cause  ray  name  is  on  his  paper.  It  will  he  a  matter  of  pride 
with  him  to  relieve  himself  of  an  obligation  to  one  who  offends 
his  self-esteem  so  greatly  as  to  provoke  him  to  complaint." 

About  ten  o'clock  the  next  day  we  left  Colonel  Grafton's  for 
the  dwelling  of  the  debtor.  He  rode  a  mile  or  two  with  us, 
and  on  leaving  us  renewed  his  desire  that  we  should  return  and 
spend  the  night  with  him.  His  residence  lay  in  our  road,  and 
we  readily  made  the  promise. 

"  Could  I  live  as  Grafton  lives,"  said  William,  after  our  friend 
had  left  us  — "  could  I  have  such  an  establishment,  and  such  a 
family,  and  be  such  a  man,  it  seems  to  me  I  should  be  most 
happy.  He  wants  for  nothing  that  he  has  not,  he  is  beloved 
by  his  family,  and  has  acquired  so  happily  the  arts  of  the 
household  —  and  there  is  a  great  deal  in  that  —  that  he  can  not 
but  be  happy.  Everything  is  snug,  and  everything  seems  to  fit 
nbout  him.  Nothing  is  out  of  place;  and  wife,  children,  s^r* 
vants  —  all,  not  only  seem  to  know  their  several  places,  but  to 
delight  in  them.  There  is  no  discontent  in  that  family ;  and 
that  dear  girl,  Julia,  how  much  she  remincb  me  of  Emmeline  — 
what  a  gentle  being,  yet  how  full  of  spirit  —  how  graceful  and 
light  in  her  thoughts  and  movements,  yet  how  true,  how  firm." 

I  let  my  friend  run  on  in  his  eulogy  without  interruption. 
The  things  and  persons  which  had  produced  a  sensation  of  so 
much  pleasure  in  his  heart,  had  brought  but  sorrow  and  dissat 
isfaction  to  mine.  His  fancy  described  his  own  household,  in 
similarly  bright  colors  to  his  mind  and  eye  —  whilst  my  thoughts, 
taking  their  complexion  from  my  own  denied  and  defeated  for 
tunes,  indulged  in  gloomy  comparisons  of  what  I  saw  in  tluj 
possession  of  others,  and  the  cold,  cheerless  fate  —  the  isolatior 
and  the  solitude  —  of  all  my  future  life.  How  could  I  appre 
ciate  the  enthusiasm  of  my  friend  —  how  share  in  his  raptures? 
Every  picture  of  bliss  to  the  eye  of  the  sufferer  is  provocation 
and  bitterness.  I  felt  it  such  and  replied  querulously  :  — 

"  Your  raptures  may  be  out  of  place,  William,  for  aught  you 
know.  What  folly  to  judge  of  surfaces!  But  your  young 
traveller  always  does  so.  Who  shall  say  what  discontent  reigns 
hi  that  family,  in  the  absence  of  the  stranger  ?  There  may  be 
t'tt.ftruess  and  curses,  for  anght  you  know,  in  many  a  bosom 


THE    HAW'T    FAMILY  159 

*he  possessor  of  which  meets  you  with  a  smile  and  cheers  yon 
with  a  song  —  and  that  girl  Julia  — -she  is  beautiful  you  say — 
out  is  she  blest  1  She  loves  —  you  see  that !  --  Is  it  certain  that 
she  loves  wisely,  worthily  —  that  she,  wins  the  object  of  her 
love  —  that  he  does  not  deceive  her  — -or  that  she  does  not  jilt 
him  in  some  moment  of  bitter  perversity  and  chafing  passion? 
Well  did  the  ancient  declare,  that  the  happiness  of  man  could 
never  be  estimated  till  the  grave  had  closed  over  him." 

"The  fellow  was  a  fool  to  say  that,  as  if  the  man  could  be 
happy  then.  But  I  can  declare  him  false  from  my  own  bosom. 
I  am  happy  now,  and  am  resolved  to  lie  more  so,  Look  you. 
Dick — in  two  we-eks  more  I  will  be  in  Marengo.  1  shall  have 
entered  my  lands,  and  made  my  preparations.  In  four  weeks 
Krnmeline  will  be  mine  ;  and  then,  hey  for  an  establishment 
like  Grafton's.  All  shall  be  peace  and  sweetness  about  my 
dwelling  as  about  his.  I  will  lay  out  my  grounds  in  the  same 
manner  —  I  will  bring  Emmeline  to  see,  his — 

I  ventured  to  interrupt  the  dreamer:  "-Suppose  she  does  not 
like  them  as  much  as  you  do  1  Women  have  their  own  mode? 
of  thinking  and  planning  these  matters.  Will  you  not  give  her 
her  own  way  ?" 

He  replied  good-naturedly  but  quickly  :  "  Oh,  surely  ;  but. 
she  will  like  them — I  know  she  will.  They  are  entirely  to 
her  taste;  and,  whether  they  be  or  not,  she  shall  have  her  own 
way  in  that.  You  do  not  suppose  1  would  insist  upon  so  small 
a  matter  V 

"  But  it  was  anything  but  a  small  matter  while  you  were 
dwelling  upon  the  charms  of  Colonel  Grafton's  establishment. 
The  grounds  make  no  small  part  of  its  charms  in  both  our  eyes, 
and  I  wonder  that  you  should  give  them  up  so  readily." 

"  1  do  not  give  them  up,  Richard.  1  will  let  Emmeline  know 
how  much  I  like  them,  and  will  insist  upon  them  as  long  as  1 
can  in  reason.  But,  however  lovely  I  think  them,  do  not  sup 
pose  that  I  count  them  as  anything  in  comparison  of  the  family 
beauty  —  the  harmony  that  makes  the  circle  a  complete  system, 
in  which  the  lights  are  all  clear  and  lovely,  and  the  sounds  all 
sweet  and  touching.'' 

"I  will  sooner  admit  your  capacity  to  lay  out  your  grounds 
?8  tasteiully  as  Colonel  (jiafton,  than  to  bring  about  such  results 


100  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

in  your  family,  whatever  it  may  be.  You  are  not  Colonel  Graf- 
ton,  William:  you  lack  his  prudence,  his  method,  his  experi 
ence,  his  years.  The  harmony  of  one's  household  depends 
greatly  upon  the  discretion  and  resolve  of  its  master.  Heaven 
knows  I  wish  you  happy,  William;  but,  if  you  promise  yourself 
a  home  like  that  of  this  gentleman,  you  must  become  a  cooler- 
headed  and  far  more  prudent  personage  than  any  of  your  friends 
esteem  you  now.  You  are  amiable  enough,  and  therefore  wor 
thy  to  have  such  a  family;  but  you  are  not  grave  enough  to 
create  its  character,  and  so  to  decree  and  impel  as  to  make  the 
lights  revolve  harmoniously  in  your  circle,  and  call  forth  the 
music  in  its  place.  Your  lights  will  sometimes  annoy  you  by 
their  glare,  or  go  out  when  you  most  need  their  assistance;  and 
your  music  will  ring  in  your  ears  at  times  when  your  evening  nap 
seems  to  you  the  most  desirable  enjoyment  in  nature.  Joy  itself  is 
known  to  surfeit,  and  you,  unhappibj,  are  not  a  man  to  feed  in 
moderation." 

He  received  my  croakings  with  good  nature,  and  laughed  heartily 
at  my  predictions. 

"You  are  a  sad  boy,  Richard;  you  are  quite  too  philosoph 
ical  ever  to  be  happy,"  was  his  good-natured  reply.  "You 
analyze  matters  too  closely.  You  must  not  subject  the  things 
which  give  you  pleasure  to  a  too  close  inspection  of  your  mind, 
or  ten  to  one  you  despise  them.  The  mind  has  but  little  to  do 
with  the  affections  —  the  less  the  better.  I  would  rather  not 
think,  but  only  believe,  where  I  have  set  my  heart.  It  is  so 
sweet  to  confide  —  it  is  so  worrying  to  doubt!  It  appears  to 
me,  now,  for  example,  that  the  fruit  plucked  by  Eve,  producing  all 
the  quarrel  between  herself  and  daddy  Adam,  was  from  the  tree  of 
jealousy." 

"What  a  transition!"  was  my  reply.  "You  have  brought  down 
your  generalization  to  a  narrow  and  very  selfish  point.  But  give 
your  horse  the  spur,  I  pray  yor  —  when  your  theme  becomes  do 
mestic,  I  feel  like  a  gallop." 

He  pricked  his  steed,  in  compliance  with  my  wish;  but  the 
increased  pace  of  our  horses  offered  no  interruption  to  his  discourse 
on  a  subject  so  near  his  heart.  lie  continued  to  speak  in  the  same 
fashion :  — 

"Once  fairly  married,    Dicky,  you  will  see  how  grave  I  can 


THE   HAPPY   FAMILY.  101 

fa.  I  will  then  b*"iome  a  public  man.  You  win  heai  of  me  as 
a  commissioner  of  the  poor,  of  roads,  bridges,  and  ferries.  I 
will  get  up  a  project  for  an  orphan-asylum  in  Marengo,  and 
^aake  a  speech  or  two  at  the  muster-ground  in  favor  of  an  insti 
tute  for  coupling  veteran  old  maids  and  inveterate  old  bache 
lors  together.  The  women  will  name  all  their  first  children 
after  rne,  and  in  five  years  I  will  be  godfather  to  half  Marengo. 
You  smile  —  you  will  see!  And  then,  Dick,  when  Emmeline 
gives  me  a  dear  little  brat  of  our  own  —  ah,  Dick  ! — " 

He  struck  the  spur  into  his  steed,  and  the  animal  bounded 
up  the  hill,  as  if  a  wing,  like  that  in  the  soul  of  his  master,  was 
lifting  him  forward  and  upward  without  his  own  exertions.  1 
smiled,  with  a  sad  smile,  at  the  enthusiast-lover ;  and  bitterly 
did  his  dream  of  delight  force  me  to  brood  over  my  own  exjic- 
'•ience  of  disappointment.  The  brightness  of  h'*;  hope  was  like 
some  glowing  and  breathing  flower  cast  upon  tin  grave  of  mine 
I  could  almost  have  quarrelled  with  him  for  l.i^  joy  on  such 
subject.  Little  did  he  or  I  think,  poor  fellow,  that  his  joy  was 
but  a  dream  —  that  the  doom  of  denial,  nor  of  denial  merely 
was  already  written  by  the  fates  against  him  !  Terrible  indee*1 
with  a  sudden  terribleness  —  when  I  afterward  reflected  npon 
his  boyish  ardor  —  appeared  to  me  the  sad  fate  which  lay,  as  it 
were,  in  the  very  path  over  which  lie  was  bounding  with  de 
light  !  Could  he  or  I  have  lifted  the  thick  veil  at  that  moment 
•.TT  idle  would  have  appeared  all  his  Lopes  —  how  much  mort 
idle  my  despondency  ! 


16£  RICO  AMD    HURPJP 


C  II  A  P  TEH    v  y  T  r 

SAVAGK    PASS!0\> 

I  hate  him  for  he  is  H  Christian — 

But  more,  for  that,  in  low  simplicity, 

He  lends  out  money  gratis,  and  brings  n<>wn 

The  rate  of  usance  In; re  with  us  in  Venice. 

If  I  ean  catch  him  once  upon  the  hip, 

I  will  feed  fat  the  ancient  grudge  I  hear  him  t" 

Merchant  of  Venn** 

WE  at  length  readied  the  dwelling  of  our  debtor,  lie  re 
ceived  us  as  before,  with  a  plain,  rude  indifference  of  manner, 
mingled  with  good  nature  nevertheless,  that  seemed  willing  to 
give  pleasure,  however  unwilling  to  make  any  great  exertion 
for  it.  There  was  nothing  to  startle  our  apprehension,  or  make 
us  suspicious.  Nobody  appeared,  save  the  host,  who  played 
his  part  to  admiration.  lie  would  have  carried  our  horses  to 
the  stable,  but  we  refused  to  suffer  him  to  do  so,  alleging  our 
intention  to  ride  back  to  Colonel  Grafton's  as  soon  as  possible. 

"What!  not  before  dinner?  —  you  will  surely  stay  and  dine 
with  me.  I  have  prepared  for  you." 

The  rascal  spoke  truly.  lie  had  prepared  for  us  with  a  ven 
geance.  I  would  have  declined,  for  I  did  not  like  (though,  to 
confess  a  truth,  I  did  not  distrust)  appearances.  But  finding  us 
hesitate,  and  fearing  probably  to  lose  his  prey,  he  resorted  to  a 
suggestion  which  at  once  determined  us. 

"I'm  afraid,  if  you  can't  stop  for  dinner,  I  can't  let  you  have 
the  money  to-day.  A  neighbor  of  mine,  to  whom  I  lent  it  a 
month  ago,  promised  to  bring  it  by  meal-time  ;  and,  as  he  lives 
a  good  bit  off,  I  don't  look  for  him  before." 

This,  uttered  with  an  air  of  indifference,  settled  our  irresolu 
tion.  The  idea  of  coming  back  again  to  such  a  place,  and  so 


SAVAGE    PASSIONS.  163 

wasting  another  Jay.  was  anything  but  agreeable,  ana  we  re 
solved  to  stay  by  all  menus,  if  by  so  doing  we  could  effect  GUI 
object.  Still,  as  we  were  bent  to  ride,  as  sooi.  as  we  had  got 
the  money,  we  insisted  that  he  should  not  take  our  horses,  which 
were  fastened  to  the  swinging  limbs  of  a  shady  tree  before  the 
entrance,  in  instant  readiness  for  use.  This  preparatory  con- 
-ference  took  place  at  the  door.  "NVe  then  entered  the  hovel, 
which  ii  will  be  necessary,  in  order  to  detail  following  events, 
briefly  to  describe.  In  this  particular,  our  task  is  easy  —  the 
arts  of  architecture,  in  the  southwestern  coumry,  being  of  no 
very  complicated  character.  The  house,  as  I  have  said  before, 
was  built  of  logs  —  unhewn,  unsqnaivd,  rude,  ili-adjointed  —  the 
mere  hovel  of  a  squatter,  who  cuts  down  fine  trees,  spoils  a 
good  site,  and  establishes  what  he  impudently  styles  his  im 
provements  !  It  consisted  of  a  single  story,  raised  upon  blocks 
four  feet  from  the  ground,  having  an  entrance  running  through 
the  centre  of  the  building,  with  apartments  on  cither  hand.  To 
the  left-hand  apartment,  which  was  used  as  a  hall,  was  attached 
at  each  e»id  a  little  Imn-to,  or  shed,  the  doors  to  which  opened 
at  once  upon  the  hall.  These  rooms  were  possibly  meant  as 
sleeping-apartments,  nothing  being  more  common  in  the  South 
west  than  such  additions  for  such  purposes.  In  this  instance, 
however,  all  regard  to  appearances  seemed  to  have  been  neg 
lected,  since,  in  attaching  the  shed  to  each  end  of  the  hall,  one 
of  these  ugly  excrescences  was  necessarily  thrown  upon  the 
front  of  the  building,  which,  without  such  an  incnmbrance,  was 
already  sufficiently  uncouth  and  uninviting.  If  the  exterior  of 
this  fabric  was  thus  unpromising,  what  could  be  said  of  it  with 
in?  It  was  a  mere  shell.  There  was  no  ceiling  to  the  hall, 
and  the  roof  which  covered  it  was  filled  with  openings  that  let 
in  the  generous  sunlight,  and  with  undiscriminating  liberality 
would  have  let  in  any  quantity  of  rain.  The  furniture  consisted 
of  an  old  sideboard,  garnished  with  a  couple  of  common  decan 
ters,  a  pitcher  with  the  mouth  broken  ofT,  and  some  three  or 
four  cracked  tumblers.  A  rickety  table  was  stationary  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  which  held,  besides,  some  half-dozen  high- 
backed  and  low-bottomed  chairs,  the  seats  of  which  were  cov 
ered  with  un tanned  deerskins. 

Into  these  we  squatted  with  little  ceremony.     Our  host  placed 


164  RICHARD    IIURDIS. 

before  us  a  bundle  of  cigars.  I  did  not  smoke,  and  declined  to 
partake ,  but  my  companion  joined  him,  and  the  two  puffed 
away  cosily  together,  to  my  great  annoyance.  Meanwhile  an 
old  negro  wench  made  her  appearance,,  spread  a  cloth  which 
might  have  been  clean  in  some  earlier  period  of  the  world's 
history,  but  which  was  inconceivably  dirty  now,  and  proceeded 
to  make  other  shows,  of  a  like  satisfactory  nature,  of  the  prom- 
;sed  dinner.  The  cloth  was  soon  laid  —  plates,  dishes,  knives 
and  forks,  produced  from  the  capacious  sideboard  ;  and,  this 
clone,  she  proceeded  to  fill  the  decanter  from  a  jug  which  she 
brought  from  the  apartment  opposite.  She  then  retired  to  make 
her  final  preparations  for  the  feast. 

To  join  with  him  in  a  glass  of  whiskey  was  the  next  proceed 
ing,  and,  setting  us  a  hearty  example  by  half  filling  his  own 
glass,  he  would  have  insisted  upon  our  drinking  with  equal  lib 
erality.  Fortunately  for  me,  at  least,  I  was  stubborn  in  my 
moderation.  I  was  not  moderate  from  prudence,  but  from  fas 
tidiousness.  In  the  society  and  house  of  one  whom  I  esteemed 
more  than  I  did  the  vulgar  creature  who  sought  to  persuade 
me,  I  feel  and  confess  I  should  have  been  more  self-indulgent. 
But  I  could  not  stomach  well  the  whiskey  of  the  person  whose 
frequent  contact  I  found  it  so  difficult  to  endure.  I  should  not 
have  drunk  with  him  at  all,  but  that  I  was  unwilling  to  give 
offence.  Such  might  have  been  the  case  in  the  event  of  my 
refusal,  had  it  been  his  cue  to  quarrel. 

We  drank,  however,  and  resumed  our  seats ;  our  host  with  a 
sang-froid  which  seemed  habitual,  if  not  natural,  dashing  into 
speech  without  any  provocation. 

"  So  you're  going  back  to  Colonel  Grafton's,  are  you?  He's 
a  mighty  great  man  now-a-days,  and  it's  no  wonder  you  young 
men  like  him.  It's  natural  enough  for  young  men  to  like  great 
men,  particularly  when  they're  well  off,  and  have  handsome 
daughters.  You've  looked  hard  upon  Miss  Julia,  I  reckon?" 

I  said  nothing,  but  Carrington  replied  in  a  jocular  manner, 
which  I  thought  rather  too  great  a  concession  of  civility  to  such 
a  creature,  lie  continued:  — 

"  Once,  tc  tell  you  a  dog-truth,  I  rather  did  like  him  myself 
lie  was  a  gentleman,  to  say  the  littlest  for  him;  and,  dang  it! 
he  made  ine  feel  it  always  when  I  stood  before  him.  It  wa« 


SAVAGE   PASSIONS.  165 

that  very  thing  that  made  me  come  to  dislike  him.  I  stood  it. 
well  enough  while  I  worked  for  him,  hut  after  I  left  him  the 
case  was  different  —  I  didn't  care  to  have  such  a  feeling  when 
I  set  up  business  for  myself.  And  then  he  took  it  upon  him  to 
give  me  advice,  and  to  talk  to  me  about  reports  going  through 
the  neighborhood,  and  people's  opinions  of  me,  and  all  that 

d d  sort  of  stuff,  just  as  if  he  was  my  godfather.     I  kicked  at 

that,  and  broke  loose  mighty  soon.  1  told  him  my  mind,  and 
then  he  pretty  much  told  me  his  —  for  Grafton's  no  coward  — 
and  so  we  concluded  to  say  as  little  to  one  another  as  we  well 
could  spare." 

"  The  wisest  and  safest  course  for  both  of  you,  I  doubt  not," 
was  Carrington's  remark. 

"  As  for  the  safety  now,  Mr.  Carrington,"  replied  the  debtor, 
"  that's  neither  here  nor  there.  I  would  not  give  this  stump  of 
tobacco  for  any  better  security  than  my  eyes  and  fingers  against 
Grafton,  or  any  other  man  in  the  land.  I  don't  ask  for  any  pro 
tection  from  the  laws  —  I  won't  be  sued,  and  I  don't  sue.  Catch 
me  going  to  the  'squire  to  bind  my  neighbor's  fist  or  fingers. 
Let  him  use  them  as  he  pleases ;  all  1  ask  is  good  notice  before 
hand,  a  fair  field,  and  no  favor.  Let  him  hold  to  it  then,  and 
see  who  first  comes  bottom  upward." 

"You  are  confident  of  your  strength,"  wns  my  remark,  "yet 
I  should  not  think  you  able  to  match  with  Colonel  Grafton. 
lie  seems  to  me  too  much  for  you.  lie  has  a  better  frame,  and 
noble  muscle." 

Not  displeased  at  what  might  look  like  personal  disparage 
ment,  the  fellow  replied  with  cool  good  nature 

"  Ah,  you're  but  a  young  beginner,  stranger,  though  it  may 
be  a  bold  one !     For  a  first  tug  or  two,  Grafton  might  do  well 
enough  ;  but  his  breath  wouldn't  hold  him  long.     His  fat  is  too 
thick  about  his  ribs  to  stand  it  out.     I'd  be  willing  to  run  the 
risk  of  three  tugs  with  him  to  have  a  chance  at  the  fourth.     By 
my  grinders,  but  I  would  gripe  him  then.     You  should  then  see 
a  death-hug,  stranger,  if  you  never  saw  it  before." 
;hey  were   no  less  prompt    and   determined.     With   a   greater 
delay,  but  at  the  same  tim^  better  preparedness,  they  mounted 
in  pursuit.     Their  safety,  perhaps,  depended  apon  arresting  hig 
flight  and  preventing  him  from  bringing  d  nvn   upon  them   « 


166  RICHARD    HUUDFS. 

the  effort  to  grasp  his  opponent's  throat ;  and  I  almost  fancied 
I  hcheld  the  wolf  upon  his  leap.  The  nails  of  his  fingers  had 
not  lieea  tut  for  a  month,  and  looked  rather  like  the  claws  of  a 
wil.1  beast  than  the  proper  appendages  of  a  man. 

"  You  seem  to  hate  him  very  much,"  was  my  unnecessary  re 
mark.  I  uttered  it  almost  unconsciously.  It  prompted  him  to 
mother  speech. 

"  I  do  hate  him,"  was  the  reply,  "more  than  I  hate  anything 
besides  in  nature.  I  don't  hate  a  bear,  for  I  can  shoot  him  ; 
nor  a  dog,  for  I  can  scourge  him ;  nor  a  horse,  for  I  can  manage 
him  ;  nor  a  wild  bull,  for  I  have  taken  him  by  the  horns  when 
he  was  maddest.  But  I  hate  that  man,  Grafton,  by  the  eternal ! 
and  I  hate  him  more  because  I  can't  manage  him  in  any  way 
He's  neither  bear,  nor  bull,  nor  dog  —  not  so  dangerous,  yet 
,..  more  difficult  than  all.  I'd  give  all  I'm  worth,  and  that's  some 
thing,  though  you  don't  see  it,  perhaps,  only  to  meet  him  as  a 
hear,  as  a  bull,  as  a  dog — ay,  by  the  hokies,  as  all  three  to 
gether  !  —  and  let  us  all  show  after  our  own  fashion,  what  we 
arc  good  for.  I'd  lick  his  blood  that  day,  or  he  should  lick 
mine." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  I  replied,  and  my  looks  and  language  must 
both  have  partaken  largely  of  the  unmitigated  disgust  within  my 
soul  — "  It  seems  to  me  strange,  indeed,  how  any  man,  having 
the  spirit  of  manhood,  should  keep  such  a  hatred  as  that  fester 
ing  in  his  heart,  without  seeking  to  work  it  out!  Why,  if  you 
hate  him,  do  you  not  fight  him  ?" 

"  That's  well  enough  said,  young  master  !"  he  cried,  without 
hearing  me  to  the  end  —  "but  it's  easier  to  say  that,  and  to  de 
sire  it,  than  to  get  it!  Fight  it  out,  indeed!  —  and  how  am  I 
to  make  him  fight?  send  him  a  challenge?  Ha!  ha!  ha! 
Why,  he'd  laugh  at  it,  and  so  would  you,  young  sir,  if  he 
showed  you  the  challenge,  while  you  happened  to  be  in  the 
house.  His  wife  would  laugh,  and  his  daughter  would  laugh, 
and  even  nigger  Tom  would  laugh.  You'd  have  lots  of  fun 
r  over  it.  Ha!  ha!  a  challenge  from  Mat.  Webber  to  Colonel 
John  Grafton,  Grafton  Lodge  !  What  a  joke  for  my  neighbor 
democrats!  Every  rascal  among  them — each  of  whom  woulf 
fight  you  to-morrow,  sir,  if  you  ventured  to  say  they  were  not 
perfectly  your  equal  —  would  }et  laugh  to  split  their  sides  to 


SAVAGE   PASSIONS.  167 

think  of  the  impudence  of  that  poor  devil,  Webbei,  in  chal 
lenging  Colonel  John  Grafton,  'Squire  Grafton,  tl  e  great 
planter  cf  Grafton  Lodge  !  Oh,  no,  sir  !  that's  all  my  eye 
There's  no  getting  a  figh^  out  of  my  enemy  in  that  way.  You 
must  think  of  some  other  fashion  for  righting  poor  men  in  this 
country." 

There  was  certainly  some  truth  in  what  the  fellow  said.  He 
felt  it,  but  he  seemed  no  longer  angry.  Bating  a  sarcastic  grin, 
and  a  slight  and  seemingly  nervous  motion  of  his  lingers,  which 
accompanied  the  words,  they  were  spoken  with  a  coolness  al 
most  amounting  to  good  nature.  I  had,  meanwhile,  got  some 
what  warmed  by  the  viperous  malignity  which  he  had  indicate! 
toward  a  gentleman,  who,  as  you  have  seen,  had  won  greatly 
upon  my  good  regards  ;  and,  without  paying  much  attention  to 
the  recovered  ease  and  quiet  of  the  fellow  —  so  entirely  different 
from  the  fierce  and  wolfish  demeanor  which  had  marked  him  but 
a  few  moments  before  —  I  proceeded,  in  the  same  spirit  in  which 
I  had  begun,  to  reply  to  him  : — 

"  Had  you  heard  me  out,  sir,  you  would,  perhaps,  have  spared 
your  speech.     I  grant  you  that  it  might  be  a  difficult,  if  not  an 
impossible  thing  to  bring  Mr.  Grafton  to  a  meeting ;  but  this 
difficulty  would  not  arise,  I  imagine,  from  any  difference  be 
tween  you  of  wealth  or  station.     No  mere  inequaliticp  of  for 
tune  would  deprive  any  man  of  his  claim  to  justice  in  any  field 
or  my  own  affairs  would  frequently  subject  me  to  such  depriva 
tion.     There  must  be  something  besides  this,  which  makes  » 
man  incur  a  forfeiture  of  this  sort." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  replied  instantly,  with  surprising  quickness 
"  I  understand  what  you  would  say.     The  world  must  esteei-* 
me  a  gentleman." 

"  Precisely,"  was  my  careless  reply.  The  fellow  looked 
gravely  upon  me  for  an  instant,  but  smoothing  down  his  brow, 
which  began  to  grow  wrinkled,  he  proceeded  in  tones  as  indif 
ferent  as  before. 

"I  confess  to  you,  I'm  no  gentleman — T  don't  pretend  to  it 
—I  wasn't  born  one  and  can't  afford  to  take  up  the  business. 
It  costs  too  much  in  clothes,  in  trinkets,  in  fine  linen,  in  book- 
learning,  and  other  matters." 

I  was  about  to  waste  a  few  sentences  upon  him  to  show  that 


168  RICHARD   HURDI8. 

these  were  not  the  requisites  of  gentility,  lut  he  spared  me  any 
such  foolish  labor  by  going  on  thus : — 

"  That's  neither  here  nor  there.  You  were  going  to  tell  me 
of  some  way  by  which  I  could  get  my  revenge  out  of  Grafton. 
Let's  hear  your  ideas  about  that.  That's  the  hitch." 

"  Not  your  revenge  ;  I  spoke  of  redress  for  wrong." 

"  Well,  well,"  he  replied,  shaking  his  head,  "  names  for  the 
same  things,  pretty  much,  but,  as  you  please.  Only  tell  me 
how,  if  you  are  no  gentleman  —  mark  that!  I  don't  want  the 
revenge  —  the  redress,  I  mean,  of  a  gentleman  —  I  want  the  re 
dress  of  a  man  —  tell  me  how  I  am  to  get  it,  when  the  persor. 
who  has  wronged  me,  thinks  me  too  much  beneath  him  to  meet 
me  on  a  fair  ground!  What's  my  remedy]  Tell  me  that,  and 
I'll  give  you  my  thanks,  and  call  you  a  mighty  clever  fellow  in 
the  bargain !" 

His  insolence  annoyed  me,  and  he  saw  it  in  my  quick  reply 
—  "I  thank  you,  sir,  I  can  spare  the  compliment — " 

He  grinned  good-naturedly :  "  You  a  poor  man !"  he  ex 
claimed,  interrupting  me.  "  By  the  hokies,  you  ought  to  be 
rich ;  and  your  mother  must  have  had  some  mighty  high  no 
tions  when  she  carried  you  !  But  go  on.  I  ask  your  pardon. 
Go  on." 

I  should  not  have  complied  with  the  fellow's  wish,  but  that 
I  felt  a  secret  desire  which  I  could  not  repress,  to  goad  him  for 
his  insolence :  "  Well,  sir,  1  say  that  I  see  no  difficulty,  if  the 
person  injured  has  the  commonest  spirit  of  manhood  in  him,  in 
getting  redress  from  a  man  who  has  injured  him,  whatever  be 
his  station.  I  am  convinced,  if  you  seriously  wish  for  it,  you 
could  get  yours  from  Grafton.  There  is  such  a  thing,  you 
know,  as  taking  the  road  of  an  enemy." 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  and  what  would  that  come  to,  or  rather  what 
do  you  think  it  would  bring  me  to,  here  in  Tuscaloosa  county? 
I'll  tell  you  in  double  quick  time  —  the  gallows.  It  wouldn't 
bring  you  to  the  gallows,  or  any  man  passing  for  a  gentleman, 
but  democrats  can't  bear  to  see  democrats  taking  upon  them 
selves  the  airs  of  gentlemen.  They'd  hang  me,  my  good  friend, 
if  they  didn't  burn  me  beforehand ;  and  that  would  be  the  up 
shot  of  following  your  counsel.  But  your  talk  isn't  new  to  me; 
I  have  thought  of  it  lon£  t^ink  —  but  to  talk 


SAVAGE   PASSIONS.  169 

about  what  you  didn't  do,  is  mighty  little  business  To  put  a 
good  deal  in  a  small  calabash,  let  me  tell  you,  then,  that  Mat 
Webber  isn't  the  man  to  sit  down  and  suck  his  thumbs  when 
his  neighbor  troubles  him,  if  so  be  he  can  help  himself  in  a 
quicker  way.  I've  turned  over  all  this  matter  in  my  mind,  and 
I've  come  to  this  conclusion,  that  I  must  wait  for  some  odd  hour 
when  good  luck  is  willing  to  do  what  she  has  never  done  yet, 
and  gives  me  a  chance  at  my  enemy.  Be  certain  when  that 
hour  comes,  stranger,  my  teeth  shall  meet  in  the  flesh  !" 

He  filled  his  glass  and  drank  freely  as  he  concluded.  Hif 
face  had  in  it  an  air  of  resolve  as  he  spoke  which  left  littlt 
doubt  in  my  mind  that  he  was  the  ruffian  to  do  what  he  threat 
ened,  and  involuntarily  I  shuddered  when  I  thought  how  man} 
opportunities  must  necessarily  arise  to  him  for  the  execution  ol 
any  villany  from  the  near  neighborhood  in  which  he  lived  witL 
the  enemy  whom  he  so  deeply  hated.  I  was  not  suffered  t^ 
meditate  long  upon  this  or  any  subject.  The  negro  woman  ap 
peared  bringing  in  dinner.  Some  fried  bacon  and  eggs  formed 
the  chief  items  in  our  repast ;  and  with  an  extra  hospitality, 
which  had  its  object,  our  host  placed  our  chairs,  which  were 
both  on  the  one  side  of  the  table,  he,  alone,  occupying  the  seat 
opposite.  Without  a  solitary  thought  of  evil  we  sat  down  to 
the  repast,  which  might  well  be  compared  to  the  bail  whic'u  is 
placed  by  the  cunning  fowler  for  the  better  entrapping  of  *he 
an  wary  bird. 

8 


170  RICHARD    HURDI8. 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

IN    THE    SNARE 

Tttius  Sabinus. — Am  I  then  catch ed  I 
Rufns. — How  think  you,  sir?  you  are. 

BEN  JONSON. 

THOUGH  neither  William  Carrington  nor  myself  sat  entirely 
at  ease  at  the  table  of  our  host,  neither  of  us  had  any  suspicion 
of  his  purposes.  Regarding  the  fellow  as  essentially  low  in 
his  character,  and  totally  unworthy  the  esteem  of  honorable 
men,  we  were  only  solicitous  to  get  our  money  and  avoid  col 
lision  with  him.  And, so  far,  we  had  but  little  reason  to  com 
plain.  Though  indulging  freely  in  remarks  upon  persons  — 
Colonel  Grafton  for  example  —  which  were  not  altogether  inof 
fensive,  his  language  in  reference  to  ourselves  was  sufficiently 
civil ;  and  bating  a  too  frequent  approach  which  he  made  to  an 
undue  familiarity,  and  which,  when  it  concerned  mo  particular 
ly,  I  was  always  prompt  to  check,  there'  was  nothing  in  his 
manner  calculated  to  offend  the  most  irritable.  On  the  contra 
ry,  the  fellow  played  the  part  of  humility  in  sundry  instances 
to  admiration  ;  when  we  resisted  him  on  any  subject,  he  shrank 
from  pursuing  it,  and  throughout  the  interview  exhibited  a  dis 
position  to  forbear  all  annoyance,  except  probably  on  the  one 
subject  of  Colonel  Grafton.  On  that  point  even  his  present 
policy  did  not  suffer  him  to  give  way  —  his  self-esteem  had 
been  evidently  wounded  to  the  quick  by  his  former  employer, 
and, with  a  forbearance  like  his  own,  which,  under  any  other 
circumstances,  would  have  been  wisdom,  we  avoided  contro 
versy  on  a  topic  in  which  we  must  evidently  disagree.  But 
not  so  Webber.  He  seemed  desirous  to  gain  aliment  for  his 
nnger  by  a  frequent  recurrence  to  the  matter  which  provoked 


IN   THE   SNARE.  171 

it,  and  throughout  the  whole  of  our  interview  until  the  occur 
rence  of  those  circumstances  which  served,  hy  their  personal 
importance,  to  supersede  all  other  matters  in  our  thoughts,  he 
continued,  in  spite  of  all  our  discouragements,  to  bring  Grafton 
before  us  in  various  lights  and  anecdotes,  throughout  the  whole 
of  which,  his  own  relation  to  the  subject  of  remark  was  that 
of  one  who  hated  with  the  bitterest  hate,  and  whom  fear,  or 
some  less  obvious  policy,  alone,  restrained  from  an  attempt  to 
wreak  upon  his  enemy  the  full  extent  of  that  malice  which  he 
yet  had  not  the  wisdom  to  repress. 

It  was  while  he  indulged  in  this  very  vein  that  we  heard  the 
approaching  tramp  of  horses.  Webber  stopped  instantly  in 
his  discourse. 

"  Ah,  there  he  comes,"  he.  remarked,  "  the  debtor  is  punctual 
enough,  though  he  should  have  been  here  an  hour  sooner. 
And  now,  'Squire  Carriugtou,  I  hope  we  shall  be  able  to  do 
your  business." 

Sincerely  did  I  hope  so  too.  There  was  an  odd  sort  of  smile 
upon  the  fellow's  lips  as  lie  said  these  words  which  did  not 
please  me.  It  was  strange  and  sinister.  It  was  not  good-hu 
mored  certainly,  and  yet  it  did  not  signify  any  sort  of  dissatis 
faction.  Perhaps  it  simply  denoted  insincerity,  and  for  this 
I  did  not  like  it.  Carrington  made  some  reply  ;  and  by  this 
time  we  heard  a  bustling  among  our  horses  which  were  fastened 
to  the  branches  of  a  tree  at  the  entrance.  I  was  about  to  rise, 
for  I  recollected  that,  we  had  money  in  the  saddle-bags,  when 
I  was  prevented  by  the  appearance  of  the  stranger  who  entered 
in  the  same  moment.  One  glance  at  the  fellow  was  enough. 
His  features  were  those  of  the  undisguised  ruffian  ;  and  even 
then  I  began  to  feel  some  little  apprehension  though  I  could 
not  to  my  own  mind  define  the  form  of  the  danger  which  might 
impend.  I  could  not  think  it  possible  that  these  two  ruffians, 
bold  however  they  might  be,  would  undertake  to  grapple  with 
us  face  to  face,  and  in  broad  daylight.  They  could  not  mis 
take  our  strength  of  body  ;  and,  body  and  soul,  we  felt  ourselves 
more  than  a  match  for  them,  and  a  third  to  help  them.  And 
yet,  when  I  reflected  upon  the  large  amount  of  money  which 
William  had  in  his  possession,  I  could  not  b'lt  feel  that  nothing 
but  a  like  knowledge  of  the  fact,  was  wanting  to  prompt,  not 


172  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

only  these  but  a  dozen  other  desperates  like  them,  to  an  attempt, 
however  unfavorable  the  aspect,  to  possess  themselves  of  it. 
Besides,  we  had  surely  heard  the  trampling  of  more  horses  than 
one  when  the  newcomer  was  approaching.  Had  he  compan 
ions  ?  Where  were  they  1  These  thoughts  began  to  annoy 
and  make  me  suspicious,  and  I  turned  to  William.  Never  was 
unquestioning  confidence  so  clearly  depicted  in  any  countenance 
as  in  his.  He  looked  on  the  stranger  with,  perhaps,  no  less 
disgust  than  myself,  but  suspicion  of  foul  play  he  had  none.  1 
determined  that  he  should  be  awakened,  and  was  about  to  rise 
and  suggest  the  conclusion  of  our  business,  in  such  a  manner  as 
to  make  it  absolutely  impossible  that  he  should  not  see  that  I 
was  placing  myself  against  the  wall,  when  Webber  of  himself 
proposed  the  adjustment  of  the  debt.  Everything  seemed  to 
be  unequivocal  and  above  board.  The  stranger  pulled  forth 
his  wallet,  and  sitting  down  to  the  table,  on  the  side  next  to 
Carrington,  proceeded  to  count  out  the  money  before  him.  The 
amount  was  in  small  bills,  and  having  completed  his  count, 
which  took  him  an  uneasy  time,  he  pushed  the  bundle  toward 
Webber,  who  slowly  proceeded  to  go  through  a  like  examination. 
I  grew  impatient  at  the  delay,  but  concluded  that  it  would  be 
better  to  say  nothing.  To  show  temper  at  such  a  moment  might 
have  been  to  defeat  the  purpose  which  we  had  in  view  ;  and  send 
us  off  with  a  satisfaction,  essentially  different  from  that  for  which 
we  came.  Webber's  face  grew  more  grave  than  usual  as  he  count 
ed  the  money,  and  I  could  observe  that  his  eyes  were  frequently 
lifted  from  the  bills,  and  seemed  to  Avander  about  the  room  as  if 
his  thoughts  were  elsewhere.  But  he  finished  at  length,  and 
handing  the  required  sum  over  to  William,  he  begged  him  to  see 
that  all  was  right.  The  latter  was  about  to  do  so  —  had  actu 
ally  taken  the  bills  in  his  hands,  when  I  heard  a  slight  footstep 
behind  me  —  before  I  could  turn,  under  the  influence  of  the 
natural  curiosity  which  prompted  me  to  do  so,  I  heard  a  sudden 
exclamation  from  my  companion,  and  in  the  very  same  instant, 
felt  something  falling  over  my  face.  Suspicious  of  foul  play 
before,  I  leaped,  as  if  under  a  natural  instinct  to  my  feet,  but 
was  as  instantly  jerked  down,  and  falling  over  the  chair  behind, 
dragged  it  with  me  upon  the  floor.  All  this  was  the  work  of  a 
moment.  Striving  to  rise,  I  soon  discovered  the  full  extent  of 


IN   THE  SNARE.  173 

my  predicament,  and  the  way  in  which  we  were  taken.  My 
arms  were  bound  to  my  side  —  almost  drawn  behind  my  back  — 
by  a  noose  formed  in  a  common  plough-line,  which  was  cutting 
into  the  flesh  at  every  movement  which  I  made. 

That  I  struggled  furiously  for  release  need  not  be  said.  I 
was  not  the  man  to  submit  quietly  to  martyrdom.  But  I  soon 
found  my  exertions  were  in  vain.  The  cords  were  not  only 
tightly  drawn,  but  securely  fastened  behind  me  to  one  of  the 
sleepers  of  the  cabin  —  a  vacant  board  from  the  floor  enabling 
my  assailants  to  effect  this  arrangement  with  little  difficulty. 
Added  to  this,  my  struggles  brought  upon  me  the  entire  weight 
of  the  two  fellows  who  had  effected  my  captivity.  One  sat 
upon  my  body  as  indifferently  as  a  Turk  upon  his  cushions ; 
while  the  other,  at  every  movement  which  I  made,  thrust  his 
sharp  knees  into  my  breast,  and  almost  deprived  me  of  the 
power  of  breathing.  Kage,  for  the  moment,  added  to  my 
strength,  which  surprised  even  myself  as  it  surprised  my  ene 
mies.  More  than  once,  without  any  use  of  my  arms,  by  the 
mere  writhings  of  my  body,  did  I  throw  them  from  it;  but  ex 
haustion  did  for  them  what  their  own  strength  could  not,  and  I 
lay  quiet  at  length,  and  at  their  mercy.  Clio,  performance  of 
this  affair  took  far  less  time  than  the  telling  of  it,  and  was  over, 
I  may  say,  in  an  instant. 

With  William  Carrington  the  case  was  different,  lie  was 
more  fortunate  :  I  thought  so  at  the  time,  at  least,  lie  effected 
his  escape.  By  what  chance  it  was,  I  know  not ;  but  they 
failed  to  noose  him  so  completely  as  they  had  done  me.  The 
slip  was  caught  by  his  hand  in  descending  over  his  shoulders, 
and  he  threw  it  from  him  ;  and,  in  the  same  moment,  with  a 
blow  of  his  fist  that  might  have  felled  an  ox,  he  prostrated  the 
ruffian  who  had  brought  the  money,  and  who  stood  most  conve 
nient  to  his  hand.  Without  stopping  to  look  at  the  enemy  be 
hind,  with  that  prompt  impulse  which  so  frequently  commands 
success,  he  sprang  directly  over  the  table,  and  aimed  a  second 
blow  at  Webber,  who  had  risen  from  his  seat  and  stood  directly 
in  the  way.  With  a  fortunate  alacrity  the  fellow  avoided  the 
blow,  and,  darting  on  one  side,  drew  his  dirk,  and  prepared  to 
await  the  second. 

J3y  this  tiuae,  however,  1  was  enabled,  though  prostrated  and 


174  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

overcome,  to  behold  the  combat  in  which  I  could  bear  no  part 
I  saw  that  the  only  chance  of  my  companion  was  in  flight.  Onr 
enemies,  as  if  by  magic,  had  sprung  up  around  us  like  the  teeth 
of  the  dragon.  There  were  no  less  than  seven  persons  in  the 
room  besides  ourselves.  With  my  utmost  voice  I  commanded 
William  to  fly.  He  saw,  in  the  same  instant  with  myself,  the 
utter  inability  of  any  efforts  which  he  might  make,  and  the 
click  of  a  pistol-cock  in  the  hands  of  a  fellow  behind  me  was  a 
warning  too  significant  to  be  trifled  with.  With  a  single  look 
at  me,  which  fully  convinced  me  of  the  pang  which  he  felt  at 
being  compelled  to  leave  me  in  such  a  situation,  he  sprang 
through  tlv  f  jtr.iwc,  and  in  another  moment  had  disappeared 
from  sight  Webber  and  three  others  immediately  rushed  off 
m  pursuit,  leaving  me  in  the.  rupto^v  and  at  the  mercy  if  the 
•hree  remaining:. 


THE  RUFFIAN   CONFERENCE.  175 


CHATTER    XXIV. 

THE    RUFFIAN    CONFERENCE. 

"  How  stubbornly  this  fellow  answered  me !" 

BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 

I  J£_  _«^ 

WHEN,  more  complacently,  I  looked  around,  and  into  the 
faces  of  my  captors,  what  was  my  surprise  to  behold  in  the 
most  turbulent  the  bullying  gambler  with  whom  I  had  refused 
to  play  at  the  tavern  in  Tuscaloo.sa  !  The  countenance  of  the 
rascal  plainly  showed  that  lie  remembered  the  transaction. 
There  was  a  complacent  and  triumphant  grin  upon  his  lips, 
which,  as  I  could  not  then  punish  him,  added  to  the  bitterness 
of  my  situation.  I  tried  to  turn  away  from  regarding  him,  but 
the  relative  situation  in  which  we  were  now  placed  was  but  too 
grateful  to  his  mean  and  malicious  soul,  and,  changing  his  posi 
tion  to  correspond  with  mine.  Le  continued  to  face  me  with  a 
degree  of  coldness  which  could  only  be  ascribed  to  his  perfect 
consciousness  of  my  inability  to  strive  with  him.  I  felt  that  my 
anger  would  be  not  only  vain  to  restrain  him  in  his  impudence, 
but,  must,  from  its  impotence,  only  proA'oke  him  to  an  increased 
indulgence  of  it,  besides  giving  him  a  degree  of  satisfaction 
which  I  was  too  little  his  friend  to  desire.  I  accordingly  fixed 
my  eyes  upon  him  with  as  much  cool  indifference  as  I  could  of 
a  sudden  put  into  them,  and,  schooling  my  lips  to  a  sort  of  ut 
terance  which  fell  far  short  of  the  feverish  wrath  in  my  bosom, 
I  thus  addressed  him  :  — 

"  If  you  are  the  same  person  who  would  have  cheated  me  at 
cards  in  Tuscaloosa  a  few  days  ago,  I  congratulate  you  upon  a 
sudden  increase  of  valor.  You  have  improved  amazingly  in  a 
very  short  space  of  time,  and,  though  I  can  not  say  that  your 
courage  is  even  now  of  the  right  kind,  yet  there's  no  saying 


176  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

bow  fast  one  may  acquire  it  who  Las  commenced  so  happily 
Perhaps  —  as  I  doubt  not  that  you  desire  still  further  to  im 
prove —  you  would  be  pleased  to  give  me  some  little  opportu 
nity  to  try  you,  and  test  your  progress.  If  you  would  but  free 
an  arm  or  so,  and  let  us  try  it  with  list  or  hickory  —  ay,  or  with 
other  weapons  with  which  I  see  you  are  well  enough  provided 
—  I  should  very  much  alter  the  opinion  I  had  formed  of  you 
mi  our  first  meeting." 

The  fellow  chafed  to  hear  these  words,  and  let  fly  a  volley 
of  oaths,  which  only  served  to  increase  the  coolness  of  my  tem 
per.  I  felt  that  I  had  a  decided  advantage  over  him,  and  a 
speech  so  little  expected  from  one  in  my  situation,  and  so  con 
temptuous  at  the  same  time,  provoked  the  unmitigated  laughter 
of  the  fellow's  companions,  who  had  assumed  with  him  the  cus 
tody  of  my  person. 

'And  wh.it  the  li-ll  is  there  to  grin  about?"  he  said  to  them, 
aii  soon  as  their  subsiding  merriment  enabled  him  to  be  heard; 
"do  you  mind,  or  do  you  think  I  mind,  the  Growings  of  this 
cock-sparrow,  when  I  can  clip  his  wings  at  any  moment?  Let 
him  talk  while  he  may  —  who  cares?  It  will  be  for  me  to 
wind  up  with  him  when  1  get  tired  of  his  nonsense." 

"  But  won't  you  let  the  chap  loose,  Bully  George  ?"  cried  one 
of  the  companions;  "let  him  loose,  as  he  asks  you,  and  try  a 
hickory.  I  know  you're  famous  at  a  stick-fight :  I  saw  you 
once  at  the  Sipsy,  when  you  undertook  to  lather  Jim  Cudworth. 
You  didn't  know  Jim  before  that  time,  George,  or  you  wouldn't 
ha'  chose  that  weapon.  But  this  lark,  now  —  he,  I  reckon's, 
much  easier  to  manage  than  Jim :  let  him  try  it,  George." 

This  speech  turned  the  fury  of  the  bully  from  me  to  his  com 
rades  ;  but  it  was  the  fury  of  foul  language  only,  and  would  not 
bear  repetition.  The  fellow,  whom  they  seemed  pleased  to 
chafe,  foamed  like  a  madman  in  striving  to  reply.  The  jest 
was  taken  up  by  the  two,  who  bandied  it  to  and  fro.  as  two 
expert  ball-players  do  their  ball  without  suffering  it  once  U 
fall  to  the  ground,  until  they  tired  of  the  game ;  and  they  re 
peated  and  referred  to  a  number  of  little  circumstances  in  the 
history  of  their  vexed  associate,  all  calculated  at  once  to  pro 
voke  him  into  additional  fury,  and  to  convince  me  that  the  fel 
low  was,  as  I  had  esteemed  him  at  the  very  first  glance,  a  poor 


THE  RUFFIAN    CONFERENCE.  177 

and  pitiable  coward  In  due  proportion  ap  they  found  merri 
ment  in  annoying  him,  did  they  seem  to  grow  good  natured 
toward  myself — perhaps,  because  I  had  set  the  ball  in  motion 
which  they  had  found  it  so  pleasant  to  keep  up  ;  but  their  sport 
had  like  to  have  been  death  to  me.  The  ruffian,  driven  almost 
to  madness  by  the  sarcasms  of  those  whom  he  did  not  dare  to 
attack,  'turned  suddenly  upon  me,  and  with  a  most  murderous 
determination  aimed  his  dagger  at  my  throat.  I  had  no  way 
to  ward  the  weapon,  and  must  have  perished  but  for  the 
promptitude  of  one  of  the  fellows,  who  seemed  to  have  watched 
the  bully  closely,  and  who  caught  his  arm  ere  it  descended,  and 
wrested  the  weapon  from  him.  The  joke  had  ceased.  The 
man  who  stayed  his  arm  now  spoke  to  him  in  the  fierce  Ian 
guage  of  a  superior  :  — 

"  Look  you,  Bully  George,  had  you  bloodied  the  boy,  I  should 
ha'  put  my  cold  steel  into  your  ribs  for  certain  !" 

"Why,  what  is  he  to  you,  Geoffrey,  that  you  should  take  up 
for  him?"  was  the  subdued  answer. 

"Nothing  much,  and  for  that  matter  you're  nothing  much  to 
me  either ;  but  I  don't  see  the  profit  of  killing  the  chap,  and 
Mat  Webber  ordered  that  we  shouldn't  hurt  him." 

"Mat  Webber's  a  milk-and-water  fool,"  replied  the  other. 

"Let  him  hear  you  say  so,"  said  Geoffrey,  "and  see  the  end 
of  it !  It's  it  pretty  thing,  indeed,  that  you  should  talk  of  Mat 
being  a  milk-and-water  fool  —  a  man  that  will  fight  through  a 
thicket  of  men,  when  you'd  be  for  sneaking  round  it !  Shut  up, 
Bully  George,  and  give  way  to  your  betters.  The  less  you  say 
the  wiser.  Don't  we  know  that  the  chap's  right  ?  If  you  were 
nly  half  the  man  that  he  seems  to  be,  you  wouldn't  be  half  so 
oloody-minded  with  a  prisoner ;  you  wouldn't  cut  more  throats 
than  Mat  Webber,  and  perhaps  you'd  get  a  larger  share  of  the 
jlunder.  I've  always  seen  that  it's  such  chaps  as  you,  that 
drn't  love  fight  when  it's  going,  that's  always  most  ready  to  cut 
ml  stab  when  there's  no  danger,  and  when  there's  no  use  for 
t.  Keep  your  knife  till  it's  wanted.  It  may  be  that  you  may 
soon  have  better  use  for  it,  since,  if  that  other  lark  get  off,  he'Ll 
bri.ig  Grafton  and  all  the  constables  of  the  district  upon  us." 

"It's  a  bad  jjb,  that  chap'?  getting  off,"  said  the  other  ruf 
lian.  •  How  did  you  happen  to  miss,  Geoffrey  'I" 


178  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

"  The  devil  knows  !  I  had  die  rope  fair  enough,  I  thought; 
but  somehow  he  twisted  round,  or  raised  his  hand  just  when  I 
dropped  it  over  him,  and  threw  it  off  a  bit  quicker  than  I  threw 
it  on.  He's  a  stout  fellow  that,  and  went  over  the  table  like  a 
ball.  I'm  dubious  he'll  get  off.  Look  out,  John,  and  say  what 
}ou  see." 

The  fellow  complied,  and  returned  after  a  few  moments  with 
an  unsatisfactory  answer.  Some  further  conference  ensued  le- 
tween  them  touching  the  probable  chances  of  Carrington's  es 
cape,  and  my  heart  grew  painfully  interested,  as  I  heard  their 
cold  and  cruel  calculations  as  to  the  wisest  course  of  action 
among  the  pursuers.  Their  mode  of  disposing  of  the  difficulty, 
summary  and  reckless  as  it  showed  them  to  be,  was  enough  to 
inspire  me  with  the  most  anxious  fear.  If  they,  unvexed  by 
flight,  and  unexcited  by  the  pursuit,  could  yet  deliberately  re 
solve  that  the  fugitive  should  be  shot  down  rather  than  suffered 
to  escape,  tiie  event  was  surely  not  improbable.  I  could  listen 
no  longer  in  silence. 

"  I  hear  you,  sir,"  I  said,  interrupting  the  fellow  who  was 
styled  Geoffrey,  and  who  seemed  the  most  humane  among  them; 
"  you  coolly  resolve  that  my  friend  should  be  murdered.  You 
can  not  mean  that  Webber  will  do  such  a  deed  ?  I  will  not 
believe  you.  If  you  only  think  to  annoy  and  frighten  me,  you 
are  mistaken.  I  am  in  your  pcwer,  it  is  true,  and  you  may  put 
me  to  death,  as  your  companion,  who  thinks  to  make  up  in  cru 
elty  what  he  lacks  in  courage,  appeared  just  now  to  desire  — 
but  is  this  your  policy  ?  What  good  can  come  of  it  ]  It  will 
neither  help  you  in  present  flight  nor  in  future  safety.  As  for 
my  money,  if  it  is  that  which  you  want,  it  is  quite  as  easy  for 
you  to  take  that  as  my  life.  All  that  I  have  is  in  your  posses 
sion.  My  horse,  my  clothes,  my  cash  —  they  are  all  together  ; 
and,  having  these,  the  mere  shedding  of  my  blood  can  give  you 
no  pleasure,  unless  you  have  been  schooled  among  the  savages 
As  for  your  men  overtaking  my  friend,  I  doubt  it,  unless  their 
horses  are  the  best  blood  in  the  country.  That  which  he  rides 
I  know  to  be  so,  and  can  not  easily  be  caught," 

"  A  bullet  will  make  up  the  difference,"  said  Geoffrey  ;  "  and, 
sure  as  you  lie  there,  Webber  will  shoot  if  he  finds  he  can't 
catch.  He  can't  help  doing  so,  if  he  hopes  to  get  off  safely 


THE   RUFFIAN    CONFERENCE.  179 

himself.  If  the  chap  escapes,  lie,  brings  down  old  Grafton  upon 
us,  and  Webber  very  well  knows  the  danger  of  falling  into  his 
clutches.  We  must  tie  you  both  up  for  to-night  if  we  can.  As 
for  killing  you  or  scaring  you,  we  want  to  do  neither  one  nor 
t'other,  if  we  can  tie  up  your  hands  and  shut  up  your  mouths 
for  the  next  twenty-four  hours  If  we  can't — " 

lie  left  the  rest  of  the  sentence  unuttered  —  meaning,  I  sup 
pose,  to  be  merciful  in  his  forbearance  ;  ami  nothing  mo.e  was 
said  by  either  of  us  for  some  time,  particularly  affecting  the 
matter  in  hand.  A  full  hour  had  elapsed,  and  yet  we  heard 
nothing  of  the  pursuit.  My  anxiety  began  to  be  fully  shared 
among  my  keepers.  They  went  out  to  the  road  alternately  at 
different  periods,  to  make  inquiries,  but  without  success,  (jcof- 
frey  at  length,  after  going  forth  with  my  gambling  acquaintance 
of  the  Tuscaloosa  tavern  for  about  fifteen  minutes,  returned, 
cringing  in  with  them,  to  my  great  surprise,  the  saddle-bags  of 
William  Carrington.  In  my  first  fear,  I  demanded  if  he,  was 
taken,  and  rny  surprise  was  great  when  they  told  me  he  was 
not. 

"  How,  then,  came  you  by  those  saddle-bags  ?"  was  my  ques 
tion. 

•'  What !   are  they  his  ?"  replied  Geoffrey. 

"  Yes." 

'  Then  he's  taken  your  horse,  and  not  his  own,"  was  the  an- 
sv or  ;  "  for  we  found  these  on  one  of  the  nags  that  you  brought 
with  you." 

They  were  not  at  all  dissatisfied  with  the  exchange,  when 
they  discovered  the  contents,  which  they  soon  got  at,  in  spite 
of  the  lock,  by  slashing  the  leather  open  with  their  knives  in 
various  places.  The  silver  dollars  rolled  from  the  handkerchief 
in  which  they  had  been  wrapped,  in  every  direction  about  the 
floor,  and  were  scrambled  after  by  two  of  the  fellows  with  the 
avidity  of  urchins  gathering  nuts.  But  I  observed  that  they 
put  carefully  together  all  that  they  took  from  the  saddle-bags, 
as  if  with  reference  to  a  common  division  of  the  spoil.  The 
few  clothes  which  the  bags  contained  were  thrown  out  without 
any  heed  upon  the  floor,  but  not  till  they  had  been  closely  ex 
amined  in  every  part  for  concealed  money.  They  got  a  small 
roll  of  bills  along  with  the  silver,  but  I  was  glad  when  I  recol 


ISO  RICHARD    HURDTR. 

lectori  that  William  had  the,  greater  sum  in  his  hosom.  Poor 
fellow!  —  at  tlmt  moment  I  envied  liim  his  escape.  1  t bought 
him  fortunate  ;  and  regarded  myself  as  the  luckless  wretch 
whom  fate  had  frowned  upon  only.  Alas  for  him  I  envied!  — 
my  t-hort-sightedness  was  pitiable.  Little  did  I  dream,  or  he 
iciJtl,  the  dreadful  fate  that  lay  in  his  path. 


THE  SUDDEN   BOLT  181 


CHAPTER   XXV, 

THE    SUDDEN    BOLT. 

Huh.  Behold,  sir, 
A  saa-writ  tragedy,  so  feelingly 
Languaged  and  cast;  with  such  a  crafty  crusty 
Contrived  and  acted,  that  wild  savages 
Would  weep  to  lay  their  ears  to!  —  ROBERT  I )AV KNIGHT. 

IT  may  be  just  as  well  that  the  knowledge  of  the  rcnclei 
should  anticipate  my  own,  and  that  I  should  narrate  in  this 
place  those  events  of  which  I  knew  nothing  till  some  time  after. 
I  will  therefore  proceed  to  state  what  happened  to  William  Car- 
rington  after  leaving  me  at  the  hovel  where  I  had  fallen  into 
such  miserable  captivity.  Having,  by  a  promptness  of  execu 
tion  and  a  degree  of  physical  energy  and  power  which  had  al 
ways  distinguished  him,  gained  the  entrance,  lie  seized  upon 
the  first  horse  which  presented  itself  to  his  hand,  and  \\hich 
happened  to  be  mine.  It  was  a  moment  when,  perhaps,  he 
could  not  discriminate,  or,  if  lie  could,  when  it  might  have  been 
fatal  for  him  to  attempt  to  do  so.  The  bloodhounds  were  clo.^e 
in  pursuit  behind  him.  lie  heard  their  cries  and  following  foot 
steps,  and  in  an  instant  tore  away  the  bridle  from  the  swinging 
bough  to  which  it  was  fastened,  tearing  a  part  of  the  branch 
with  it.  lie  did  not  stop  to  throw  the  bridle  over  the  animal's 
neck.  To  a  rider  of  such  excellent  skill,  the  reins  were  hardly 
necessary.  He  leaped  instantly  upon  his  back,  making  his 
rowels  answer  all  purposes  in  giving  the  direction  which  he 
desired  him  to  take. 

His  foes  were  only  j«ss  capable  and  energetic  than   himself; 

The  fellow's  teeth  gnashed  as  lie  spoke,  and  his  mouth  was 
listorted,  and  his  eyes  glared  with  an  expression  absolutely 
fiendish.  At  the  same  moment,  dropping  the  end  of  the  segar 
from  his  hand,  he  stuck  forth  his  half-contracted  lingers,  as  if  iu 


182  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

competent  force  for  their  arrest,  which  certainly  would  be  the 
case  if  they  suffered  him  to  convey  the  intelligence  to  such  an 
active  magistrate  as  Colonel  Grafton.  Their  desire  was  further 
stimulated  by  the  knowledge  which  they  had  of  the  large 
amount  of  money  which  William  carried  with  him. 

If  their  motives  were  sufficient  to  quicken  their  movements  to 
the  utmost  point  within  their  endeavors,  his  were  not  less  so. 
His  life,  he  must  have  known,  depended  upon  his  present 
escape.  Nor  was  it  merely  necessary  to  keep  ahead  of  them  ; 
he  must  keep  out  of  bullet-reach  also  to  be  safe.  But  I  will  not 
do  him  the,  injustice  to  suppose,  for  an  instant,  that  his  consid 
erations  were  purely  selfish.  I  knew  better.  I  feel  assured 
4liat  my  safety  was  no  less  the  matter  in  his  thoughts  than  his 
3wn.  I  feel  sure  he  would  never  have  been  content  with  his 
own  escape,  did  he  not  believe  that  mine  now  depended  upon  it. 
These  were  all  considerations  to  move  him  to  the  fullest  exer 
tion  ;  and  never  did  good  steed  promise  to  serve  at  need  his 
rider  better  than  did  mine  in  that  perilous  flight.  An  animal 
only  inferior  to  his  own,  my  horse  had  the  blood  of  a  racer  that 
was  worthy  of  his  rider's  noble  nature.  lie  answered  the  ex 
pectations  of  Carrington  without  making  necessary  the  frequent 
application  of  the  spur.  He  left  the  enemy  behind  him.  He 
gained  at  every  jump  ;  and  the  distance  between  them  at  the 
first,  which  was  not  inconsiderable,  t^r  the  movement  of  Wil 
liam  had  been  so  unexpected  as  to  have  taken  Webber  and  the 
rest  by  surprise,  was  increased  in  ten  minutes  nearly  double. 
At  moments  they  entirely  lost  sight  of  him,  until  very  long 
stretches  of  a  direct  road  again  made  him  visible;  but  he  was 
already  far  beyond  the  reach  of  their  weapons.  These,  with 
but  one  exception,  were  pistol*  of  large  size,  which  in  a  prac 
tised  hand  might  carry  truly  a  distance  of  thirty  yards.  Web 
ber,  however,  had  a  short  double-barrelled  ducking-gun,  which 
he  had  caught  up  the  moment  his  horse  was  ready.  This  was 
loaded  with  buck-shot,  and  would  have  told  at  eighty  yards  in 
the  hands  of  the  ruffian  who  bore  it. 

But  the  object  was  beyond  its  reach,  and  the  hope  of  the  pur 
suers  was  now  in  some  casualty,  which  seemed  not  improbable 
in  tin:  desperate  and  headlong  manner  of  Carrington's  flight 
But  the  Utter  had  not  lost  any  of  his  coolness  in  bis  impetuosi- 


THE   SUDDEN   BOLT.  183 

ty.  lie  readily  comprehended  the  nature  ot  that  hope  in  his 
enemies  which  prompted  them  to  continue  the  pursuit;  and, 
perhaps,  less  confident  than  he  might  have  been,  in  his  own 
horsemanship,  he  determined  to  baffle  them  in  it. 

Looking  round,  as  he  did  repeatedly,  he  availed  himself  of  a 
particular  moment  when  he  saw  that  he  might  secure  his  bridle 
and  discard  the  fragment  of  the  bough  which  was  still  attached 
to  it,  before  they  could  materially  diminish  the  space  between 
them  ;  and  drawing  up  his  horse  with  the  most  perfect  coolness, 
he  proceeded  to  unloose  the  branch  and  draw  the  reins  fairly 
over  the  head  of  the  animal.  The  pursuers  beheld  this,  and  it 
invigorated  the  pursuit. 

If  the  reader  knows  anything  of  the  region  of  country  in 
which  these  events  took  place,  he  will  probably  recognise  the 
scene  over  which  I  now  conduct  him.  The  neighborhood  road, 
leading  by  Grafton's  and  Webber's,  was  still  a  distinct  trace, 
'though  but  little  used,  a  i'cw  years  ago.  It  was  a  narrow  track 
:at  best  and  been  a  frontier  road  for  military  purposes  before  the 
•Chickasaws  left  that  region.  The  path  was  intricate  and  wind 
ing,  turning  continually  to  right  and  left,  in  avoiding  sundry  lit 
tle  creeks  and  difficult  hills  which  sprinkled  the  whole  face  of 
the  countrv.  But  the  spot  where  William  halted  to  arrange  his 
bridle  was  more  tnan  usually  straight,  and,  for  the  space  of  half 
a  mile,  objects  might  be  discerned  in  a  line  nearly  direct.  Still 
the  spot  was  an  obscure  and  gloomy  one.  The  road  in  one 
place  ran  between  two  rising  grounds,  the  elevations  of  which 
were  greater  and  more  steep  than  u&ual.  On  one  side  there 
was  an  abrupt  precipice,  from  which  the  trees  almost  entirely 
)verhung  the  path.  This  was  called  at  that  period,  the  "  day- 
blind,"  in  a  taste  kindred  with  that  which  named  a  correspond 
ing  region,  only  a  few  miles  off,  "  the  shades  of  death."  For  a 
space  of  forty  yards  or  more,  this  "  blind"  was  sufficiently  close 
and  dense,  almost  to  exclude  the  day  —  certainly  the  sunlight. 

William  had  entered  upon  this  passage,  and  the  pursuers 
were  urging  their  steeds  with  a  last  and  despairing  effort,  al 
most  hopeless  of  overtaking  him,  and,  perhaps,  only  continuing 
the  chase  under  the  first  impulse  of  their  start,  and  from  the  ex 
citement  which  rapid  motion  always  provokes.  He  now  felt 
his  security,  and  laughed  at  the  pursuit.  The  path,  though  dim 


184  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

and  dusky,  was  yet  distinct  before  him.  At  tlie  outlet  the  Ban 
shine  lay,  like  a  protecting  spirit,  in  waiting  to  receive  him  ; 
and  the  sight  so  cheered  him,  that  lie  half  turned  about  upon 
his  horse,  and  while  he  stayed  not  his  progress,  he  shook  his 
unemployed  aim  in  triumph  at  his  enemies.  Another  bound 
brought  him  out  of  the  dim  valley  tnrough  which  he  Li.d  rid 
den ;  and  when  he  was  mozt  sure  of  his  escape,  and  when  his 
pursuers  began  to  meditate  their  return  from  the  hopeless  chase, 
a  sudden  shot  was  heard  from  the  woods  above,  and  in  the  same 
instant,  Webber,  who  was  in  the  advance,  saw  the  unhappy 
youth  bound  completely  out  of  his  saddle,  and  fall  helplessly, 
like  a  stone,  upon  the  ground,  while  his  horse  passed  from  un 
der  him,  and,  under  the  impulse  of  sudden  fright,  continued  on 
liis  course  with  a  more  headlong  speed  than  ever 

The  event  which  arrested  for  ever  the  progress  of  the  fugi 
tive,  at  once  stopped  the  pursuit  as  suddenly.  Webber  called 
one  of  his  companions  to  his  side:  a  sallow  and  small  peispn, 
with  a  keen  black  eye,  and  a  visage  distinguished  by  dogged 
resolution,  and  practised  cunning. 

"  Barret,"  said  the  one  ruffian  to  the  other,  "  we  must  see  who 
it  is  that  volunteers  to  be  our  striker.  He  has  a  ready  hand,  and 
should  be  one  of  us,  if  he  be  not  so  already.  It  may  be  Eberly. 
It  is  high  time  he  should  have  left  Grafton's,  where  the  wonder 
is  he  should  have  trifled  so  long.  There's  something  wrong 
about  that  business  ;  but  no  matter  now.  We  must  see  to  this. 
Should  the  fellow  that  tumbled  the  chap  not  be  one  of  us,  you 
must  make  him  one.  We  have  him  on  our  own  terms.  Pursue 
him  though  he  takes  you  into  Georgia.  Away,  now ;  sweep 
clean  round  the  blind,  and  come  on  his  back  —  he  will  keep 
close  MJfc^»i  he  sees  us  two  coming  out  in  front — and  when  you 
have  g«"»  his  trail,  come  back  for  an  instant  to  get  your  instruc 
tions.  Be  off,  now ;  we  will  see  to  the  carrion." 

When  Webber  and  his  remaining  companion  reached  the 
body,  it  was  already  stiff.  In  the  warm  morning  of  youth  —  in 
the  flwbh  of  hope — with  a  heart  as  true,  and  a  form  as  noble,  as 
ever  bounded  with  love  and  courage — my  friend,  my  almosx. 
brother,  was  shot  down  by  a  concealed  ruffian,  to  whom  he  had 
neve-:  offered  wrong  !  What  a  finish  to  his  day  !  What  a  sud 
den  iitght  for  so  fair  a  morning ! 


NARROW    ESCAPE.  185 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

NARROW    ESCAPE. 

'Villain,  I  know  thou  com'st  to  murder  me." 

MARLOWE. — Eduard  the  Second 

MATTHEW  WEBBER  was  no  trifler.  Though  represented  by 
his  comrades,  as  we  have  seen  in  a  previous  dialogue,  as  tmwil- 
ling  to  shed  blood,  it  may  be  added  that  his  unwillingness  did 
not  arise  from  any  scruples  of  humanity,  which  are  always  un 
necessary  to  the  profession  of  the  outlaw.  He  was  governed 
entirely  by  a  selfish  policy,  which  calmly  deliberated  upon  its 
work  of  evil,  and  chose  that  course  which  seemed  to  promise 
the  greatest  return  of  profit  with  the  greatest  security.  To 
avoid  bloodshed  was  simply  to  avoid  one  great  agent  of  detec 
tion.  Hence  his  forbearance.  To  the  moral  of  the  matter,  none 
could  have  been  more  thoroughly  indifferent.  We  beheld  him 
giving  instructions  to  an  associate  the  moment  that  William 
Carrington  fell  by  an  unknown  hand,  to  pursue  the  murderer, 
not  with  a  view  to  his  punishment,  but  with  a  desire  to  secure 
a  prom;  t  associate.  It  was  not  the  wish  of  the  frateraity  of 
robbers,  herding  on  the  Choctaw  frontier,  that  anybody  should 
take  up  the  trade  in  that  region,  of  which  they  desired  the  mo 
nopoly.  When  the  fellow,  thus  instructed,  had  gone,  Webber, 
with  his  remaining  associates,  at  once  proceeded  to  examine 
the  body,  which  was  lifeless  when  they  reached  it.  They 
wasted  no  time  in  idle  wonder,  and  gave  but  a  single  glance  at 
the  wound,  which  they  saw  was  inflicted  by  a  rifle-bullet ;  then 
lifting  the  inanimate  form  into  the  wood,  they  rifled  it  of  the 
large  sum  of  money  which  Carrington  had  concealed  in  his 
bosom,  and  taking  it  into  a  little  crevice  in  the  hill-side,  which 
could  not  hide  it,  they  threw  it  down  indifferently,  trusting  to 


186  RICHARD    HURD1S. 

the  wolves,  of  which  that  neighborhood  had  numerous  herds,  to 
remove  it  in  due  season.  Poor  youth!  with  such  a  heart  —  so 
noble,  so  brave  —  with  affections  so  warm,  and  hopes  so  full  of 
promise  —  to  be  shot  down  in  the  sun-light — in  the  bloom  of 
manhood  —  by  an  obscure  ruffian,  and  be  denied  a  grave! 

When  they  had  possessed  themselves  of  the  money,  the 
amount  of  which  gave  them  no  small  pleasure,  they  put  spurs 
to  their  horses  and  rode  back  with  as  great  speed  as  they  had' 
used  in  the  pursuit.  It  was  necessary  that  they  should  do  so, 
and  hasten  their  flight  from  the  spot  where  their  evil-doings  had 
been  begun.  My  horse  had  continued  on  his  course  with  a  speed 
which  had  been  increased  by  his  alarm  and  unrestraint  after  the 
fall  of  his  rider ;  and  We^oer  saw,  with  no  small  anxiety,  that 
he  was  in  the  direct  roaa  to  Colonel  Grafton's,  to  which  place 
he  did  not  doubt  that  he  would  return,  having  been  so  lately 
lodged  there.  The  scoundrels,  who  were  guarding  me,  had,  in 
the  meantime,  become  greatly  disquieted  by  their  apprehensions 
at  the  delay  of  the  pursuers,  and  not  small  was  their  relief  when 
they  saw  them  safe,  and  felt  themselves  once  more  secure  in 
their  united  strength.  They  consulted  together  apart,  arid  fre 
quently  pointed  to  me  where  I  lay,  on  my  back,  and  bound 
rigidly  to  an  exposed  joist  of  the  floor.  What  had  taken  place 
in  the  pursuit,  they  did  not  reveal  in  my  hearing ;  and  bitter, 
indeed,  were  my  feelings  as  I  lay  in  this  doubly  evil  state  of 
incapacity  and  suspense.  The  doubtfulness  of  my  own,  was 
riot  less  a  subject  of  concern  in  my  mind  than  was  his  fate  — 
for  my  strongest  impression  with  regard  to  Carrington  was,  that 
he  had  escaped  in  safety  to  Grafton's.  All  then  that  I  had  to 
fear  might  be  the  present  rage  of  my  captors.  They  might 
sacrifice  me  before  relief  could  come.  I  strove  not  to  think  of 
this ;  still  less  was  I  willing  that  the  villains  should  see  I  feared 
them ;  yet,  to  confess  a  truth,  it  required  no  small  effort  to  con 
ceal  the  apprehensions  which  I  could  not  subdue,  and  my  suc 
cess,  with  all  my  efforts,  was  partial  only.  They  must  have 
beheld  the  struggle  of  my  bosom  in  my  face.  But  of  this  they 
seemed  to  take  no  heed.  They  were  too  much  interested  in 
their  own  situation  and  apprehensions,  to  give  much  regard  to 
mine.  They  consulted  together,  earnestly  with  the  air  of  men 
who  had  need  of  haste  in  their  resolutions.  "  We  must  be  06 


NARROW    ESCAPE.  187 

it  once,"  I  heard  Webber  say  at  one  time ;  "  there  will  be  nc 
help  for  us  now,  if  he  gets  to  Grafton's."  This  last  sentence 
brought  warmth  and  assurance  to  my  heart,  I  did  not  doubt  of 
my  friend's  safety.  "  But  this  lark  ?"  said  Geoffrey  ;  and  I 
saw  from  the  quick,  malignant  glance  which  my  gambler  ac 
quaintance  bestowed  upon  me  when  these  words  were  uttered, 
that  it  was  of  me  they  spoke.  The  latter  bent  forward  to  hear 
the  resolve  of  Webber  —  whose  word  here  seemed  to  be  law  — 
with  an  air  of  anxiety  not  less  great,, than  that  which  1  might 
have  shown  myself.  The  answer  of  Webber  did  not  seem  to 
satisfy  him. 

"  What  of  him  1"  said  the  latter.  "  Shall  we  stretch  him  T* 
was  the  further  inquiry  of  Geoffrey ;  an  equivocal  phrase  which 
I  suppose  coolly  meant  "  shall  we  cut  his  throat  ?" 

"  Pshaw,  no  !"  replied  the  other.  "  What's  the  good  of  it?  — 
let  the  fellow  lie  where  he  is  and  cool  himself.  By  to-morrow, 
somebody  will  cut  his  strings,  and  help  him  turn  over,  lie  will 
get  hungry  in  the  meantime,  for  he  didn't  eat  a  hearty  dinner  — 
all  his  own  fault.  Come,  let  us  jog." 

Ten  minutes  had  not  elapsed  when  they  were  all  ready,  and 
I  saw  them  prepare  to  depart,  leaving  me  as  I  lay,  bound  to  the 
floor  by  my  body  and  arms,  and  capable  of  moving  my  legs  only. 
Webber  took  leave  of  me  with  the  composure  of  one  who  has 
nothing  with  which  to  reproach  himself. 

"  Grafton  will  be  here  after  a  while,"  said  he,  "and  set  you 
free.  You  may  tell  him  I'm  sorry,  but  it  don't  suit  me  to  wait 
for  him  now.  lie  will  see  me,  however,  at  his  daughter's  mar- 
liage.  Good  by." 

The  man  called  Geoffrey  said  something  to  me  in  a  similar 
spirit ;  the  gambler  grinned  only  upon  me  as  he  passed,  but 
\\ith  such  an  expression  of  malice  in  his  visage,  that,  though  I 
did  not  fear  the  reptile,  it  yet  made  me  shudder  to  behold  him. 
In  a  few  moments  more  I  was  left  alone  to  in  use  over  my  dis 
consolate  condition.  I  heard  the,  trampling  of  their  horses  die 
away  in  the  distance,  and  such  wras  tht>  chrerl  ssness  of  my  sit 
uation,  that  I  positively  seemed  to  be  chilled  by  their  departure. 
This,  however,  was  but  the  feeling  of  the  moment,  and  I  was 
allowed  a  brief  time  for  its  indulgence.  To  my  surprise  the  gam 
bler  reappeared,  when  I  had  thought  him  with  the  rest  of  his 


188  RICHARD    HURD1S. 

companions  full  a  half  mile  off;  and  the  increased  malignity 
embodied  and  looking  green  in  his  visage,  left  ma  little  doubts 
as  to  the  motive  which  had  made  him  lag  behind.  If  I  had 
ioubts  at  the  beginning,  he  did  not  suffer  me  to  entertain  them 
iobg.  His  words  removed  them. 

"  And  now,"  he  said,  "  my  brave  fellow,  the  time  is  come  for 
your  quittance.  You  have  had  the  word  of  me  long  enough 
You  are  in  my  power.  What  have  you  to  say  for  yourself?" 

"  What  should  I  say  1"  was  my  ready  and  indignant  reply. 
Truly  and  miserably  did  I  feel  at  the  conviction,  that  I  was  in 
deed  in  the  power  and  at  the  mercy  of  this  vile  wretch  ;  but  if 
worlds  had  depended  upon  it,  I  could  not  have  answered  him 
other  than  in  language  of  the  most  unadulterated  scorn. 

"  Ha  !  do  you  riot  understand  me  ?"  he  cried.  "  Your  life,  I 
tell  you,  is  in  my  power !  The  only  man  in  the  world  who 
could  have  kept  me  from  taking  it,  is  Mat  Webber,  and  he's 
out  of  reach  and  hearing.  It  is  but  a  blow,  and  with  all  your 
pride  and  insolence  I  let  your  blood  out  upon  this  floor  !  What 
do  you  say  that  I  should  not?  —  what  prayer  will  you  make  to 
me  that  I  should  spare  your  life  ?" 

The  fellow  leaned  upon  the  table  which,  occupying  the  mid 
dle  of  the  floor,  stood  between  him  and  the  place  where  I  lay. 
My  feet  were  half  under  it.  He  leaned  over  it,  and  shook  at 
me  a  long  knife,  bared  ready  for  the  stroke,  in  sundry  savage 
movements.  I  gave  him  look  for  look,  and  a  full  defiance  for 
all  his  threatenings. 

"  Prayer  to  you  !"  I  exclaimed  ;  "  that  were  putting  myself, 
indeed,  within  your  power!  You  may  stab!  —  I  can  not  help 
myself — but  you  shall  only  murder  !  —  wretch  !  you  shall  have 
no  triumph !"  and,  grown  utterly  reckless,  as  I  believed  there 
was  no  hope  of  escape,  and  that  I  must  die,  I  lifted  my  feet,  and 
thrusting  them  with  all  my  might  against  the  table,  I  sent  it  for 
ward  with  such  force  as  to  hurl  it  upon  him,  when  both  came  to 
the  floor  together.  The  fellow  was  not  much  hurt,  and  a  few 
moments  sufficed  for  Lis  extrication.  With  accumulated  fury, 
that  foamed  but  did  not  speak,  he  was  about  to  rush  upon  me, 
when  a  sudden  footstep  behind  him  drew  all  his  attention  to  the 
new-comer.  Never  could  1  have  believed,  till  then,  that  fear 
could  so  suddenly  succeed  to  rage  in  any  bosom.  The  villain 


NARROW    ESCAPE.  189 

grew  white  as  a  sheet  the  moment  that  he  heard  the  sound  and 
saw  the  person.  It  was  Webber  who  looked  upon  him  with  the 
eye  of  a  master. 

"  You're  a  pretty  fellow  !  ain't  you  ?  So  you  kept  behind  for 
this  ?  Geoffrey  warned  me  to  expect  it,  as  soon  as  I  found  you 
missing;  and  it's  well  I  got  back  in  time.  You  are  a  fool,  bul 
ly  boy,  and  you'll  be  stretched  for  it.  i>lount  before  me,  and  if 
you're  wise,  forget  you've  ever  seen  this  chap.  Come  —  be 
gone,  I  say!  no  word  —  not  one  —  Grafton's  under  way  al 
ready  !" 

The  assassin  was  actually  incapable  of  answer.  Oertainly  he 
made  none.  The  main  villain  of  this  precious  set  must  have 
seen  a  various  life  of  service.  The  whole  train  of  proceedings 
which  lie  had  this  day  witnessed  —  the  first  assault  upon  Wil 
liam  and  myself — the  pursuit  of  the  former  —  his  death  —  and 
the  subsequent  attempt  of  my  enemy  upon  my  person  —  all 
seemed  to  awaken  in  him  but  little  emotion.  There  was  but 
one  subject  upon  which  he  could  not  preserve  his  temper,  and 
that  was  his  old  employer,  Colonel  Grafton  —  but  with  regard 
to  all  others,  his  selfishness  had  schooled  him  successfully  to 
suffer  no  feeling  or  passion  to  interfere  in  the  slightest  degree 
with  what  might  be  his  prevailing  policy.  With  the  inflexi 
bility  ot  a  superior,  suspicious  of  his  slave,  he  waited  until  he 
saw  my  enemy  mount  and  set  forth,  then  nodding  to  me  with 
the  freedom  of  an  old  friend,  he  left  the  entrance,  and  1  wa« 
GLCO  more  left  alone. 


190  RICHARD    HURDIS. 


01APTER    XXVII. 

JOY SORROW. 

'When  Ly cabas  his  Athis  thus  beheld, 
How  was  his  friendly  heart  with  sorrow  filled! 
A  youth  so  noble,  to  his  soul  so  dear, 
1o  see  his  shapeless  look — his  dying  groans  to  hear!" 

OVID  —  Mctamorphoi  /*,  B.  7, 

HOT:R  after  hour  rolled  on,  night  was  approaching,  and  yet 
no  aid  came.  What  could  this  mean  ?  What  had  become  of 
my  friend?  Had  he  grown  indifferent  to  my  fate?  did  he  fear 
to  encounter  a  second  time  with  the  wretches  who  had  pursued 
him  for  his  life  ?  I  dismissed  this  doubt  as  soon  as  it  was  sug 
gested  to  my  mind ;  but  I  conceived  any  but  the  true  occasion 
for  his  delay.  I  knew  William  too  well  to  fear  that  he  would 
desert  me.  I  knew  that  he  had  no  pusillanimous  fears  to  deter 
him  from  a  proper  risk.  He  had  probably  not  been  able  to  get 
assistance  readily,  and  to  come  without  an  adequate  force  was 
to  commit  a  rashness  and  incur  a  danger  without  any  corre 
sponding  advantage.  I  tried  to  solace  myself  with  the  convic 
tion  that  he  would  not  be  much  longer  absent,  but  how  cheerless 
did  I  feel  the  while  !  The  very  inability  under  which  I  la 
bored  to  do  anything  for  myself,  was,  to  a  mind  and  body  like 
mine —  accustomed  to  do  for  themselves  always  —  enough  to 
discourage  the  hope  of  being  effectually  relieved  by  otliers. 
The  approach  of  night  did  not  diminish  my  apprehensions 
The  sun  had  now  set,  and  there  was  a  brief  interval  of  dusk 
and  silence  between  its  disappearance  and  the  rising  of  the 
moon,  which  was  particularly  gloomy.  How  dreadfully  active, 
my  imagination  grew  in  tiint  interval,  and  what  i-ffcc-t  it  had 
upon  my  nerves,  I  almost  shame  to  say  ;  but  1  felt  a  degree  of 
fear  in  that  brief  space  of  time  which  I  had  never  suffered  be- 


JOY  —  SORROW.  191 

fore,  and  trust  that,  in  no  situation,  1  shall  ever  be  compiled  to 
endure  again. 

A  state  of  conscious  helplessness  suggests  a  thousand  fears 
and  fancies  that  could  not  he  forced  upon  the  mind  under  other 
circumstances.  Forms  of  danger  that  would  seem  impossible 
even  in  our  dreams,  become,  at  such  a  period,  unquestionable 
foes ;  and  the  mind,  losing  its  balance  after  a  brief  contest,  fore 
goes  all  examination  of  the  danger,  and  yields  up  the  contest  in 
utter  imbecility.  But  now  the  moon  rose  to  cheer  me.  Light 
is  always  cheerful.  I  could  not  see  her  orb  where  I  lay,  but 
her  smiles,  like  those  of  some  benign  and  blessed  spirit,  streamed 
through  the  thousand  cracks  and  openings  of  the  log-hovel  which 
was  now  a  prison  as  secure  to  keep  me  as  the  donjon  of  the  feu 
dal  baron.  Her  beams  fell  around  me  in  little  spots  that  dimpled 
the  whole  apartment  with  shining  and  bright  glances. 

Yet  even  this  cheering  spectacle  impressed  me  with  added 
disquiet  when  I  found  myself  so  securely  fastened  to  the  floor 
as  not  to  be  able  with  all  my  writhings  to  avoid  the  occasional 
rays  that  fell  upon  my  face  and  eyes.  How  bitterly  did  this 
make  me  feel  my  incapacity  !  —  and  when,  at  moments,  I  heard 
the  faint  but  protracted  bay  of  the  wolf  in  his  leafy  den  not 
far  off,  which  I  did  as  soon  as  the  night  set  in,  I  could  not 
doubt  that  he  would  soon  make  his  appearance  in  the  deserted 
hovel :  and  I,  who  could  not  shelter  my  face  from  the  light  of 
the  moon,  had  still  fewer  hopes  of  being  able  to  protect  in}- self 
from  him.  With  every  sound  in  the  neighboring  thickets  I 
imagined  him  approaching,  under  the  instinct  of  a  scent  as  keen 
as  that  of  the  vulture,  to  his  bloody  feast ;  and  1  vainly  asked  my. 
self  what  I  should  do  in  my  defence,  when  his  gaunt  and  shagg) 
body  was  stretched  out  upon  my  own,  and  his  slobbering  snout 
was  thrust  into  my  face  !  1  strove,  but  could  not  lift  an  arm  — 
1  could  only  shout,  in  the  hope  to  scare  him  from  his  prey  , 
and,  such  was  my  conscious  impotence,  that  it  struck  me  as  not 
impossible  but  that  I  might  have  lost  the  use  of  my  voice  also. 
Such  was  the  vivid  force  of  this  childish  apprehension  in  my 
mind,  that  I  actually  shouted  aloud,  to  convince  myself  that  it 
was  groundless:  I  shouted  aloud,  and,  to  my  great  joy  —  with 
out  any  such  hope  or  expectation  —  I  heard  niv  shouts  returned. 
Another  and  another  !  Never  were  there  sweeter  ei-hces  tn  the 


192  RICHARD    HURDI8. 

cry  for  relief.  In  a  few  minutes  more  I  was  surrounded  by  a 
troop — a  halt-dozen  at  least  —  all  friends  —  yet  where  was  Wil 
ham  Carrington,  the  dearest  friend  of  all  —  where  ?  where  ?  My 
demand  was  quickly  answered. 

Colonel  Grafton,  who  led  the  company,  told  his  story,  which 
was  painfully  unsatisfactory.  My  horse,  freed  from  his  rider, 
had  brought  the  only  intelligence  which  Colonel  Grafton  had 
received.  lie  had  seen  nothing  of  my  friend.  He  was  not  at 
home  when  the  horse  came  to  his  gate,  and  the  animal  was 
taken  in  by  a  servant.  When  he  did  return,  he  immediately 
proceeded  to  my  assistance ;  though  not  before  calling  up  a 
patrol  of  such  of  his  neighbors  as  lie  could  rely  upon,  to  assist 
him  in  an  inquiry  in  which  he  not  only  feared  foul  play,  but 
apprehended  an  issue  with  more  than  the  one  villain  into  whose 
clutches  we  had  fallen.  I  was  soon  freed  from  my  bonds,  but 
how  much  more  unhappy  than  I  was  before  !  How  puerile  had 
been  my  selfish -apprehensions,  compared  to  those  which  now 
filled  my  heart  when  I  thought  of  Carrington  !  What  had  been 
his  fate?  where  was  he?  How  icy  cold  in  my  bosom  did  my 
blood  run  as  I  meditated  these  doubts,  and  dreaded  the  increase 
of  knowledge  which  I  was  yet  compelled  to  seek ! 

Let  me  pass  over  this  dreadful  interval  of  doubt,  and  hurry 
on  the  palsying  conviction  of  the  truth  which  followed.  Our 
search  that  night  was  unavailing,  but  the  next  morning  the 
woods  were  scoured,  and  it  was  my  fortune  to  be  the  first  to 
fall  upon  traces  which  led  me  to  the  body  of  my  friend.  I  saw 
where  he  had  fallen  —  where  the  horse  had  evidently  shyed  as 
the  shot  was  given  and  the  rider  fell.  The  earth  was  still 
smooth  where  ho  had  lain,  for  Webber  was  too  much  hurried, 
or  too  indifferent,  to  endeavor  to  remove  the  marks  of  the  event 
It  was  not  now  difficult  to  find  the  body.  They  had  not  carried 
it  far ;  and  I  removed  a  clump  of  bushes  which  grew  over  the 
hollow  in  which  they  had  thrown  it,  and  started  with  a  convul 
sion  of  horror  to  find  it  lying  at  my  feet.  Cold,  silent,  stiff — 
there  he  lay,  the  friend  of  my  heart,  battered  and  bruised  —  his 
noble  face  covered  with  blood  and  dust,  one  of  his  eyes  protru 
ding  from  its  socket,  and  the  limbs,  once  so  symmetrical  and 
straight,  now  contracted  and  fixed  in  deformity  by  the  sudden 
spasms  of  death ! 


JOY  —  SORROW.  193 

Afl  my  strength  left  me  as  this  dreadful  spectacle  met  my 
eyes.  I  sunk  down  beside  it,  incapable  of  speech  or  action. 
My  knees  were  weakened  —  my  very  soul  dead  within  me.  I 
could  only  sob  and  moan,  and  my  choking  utterance  might  well 
have  moved  the  wonder  and  pity  of  those  about  me,  to  behold 
one  who  seemed  otherwise  so  strong  and  hold,  now  sunk  into 
such  a  state  of  womanlike  infirmity.  Colonel  Graft  on  condoled 
with  me  like  a  father ;  but  what  could  he,  or  any  one,  say  to 
me  in  the  way  of  consolation  ?  Who  could  declare  the  amount 
of  my  loss?  and  yet  what  was  rny  loss  to  hers  —  the  poor  girl 
who  waited  for  his  return?  From  me  she  was  to  hear  that  lie 
never  coulc  return!  —  that  he  lay  cold  in  his  gore  —  his  voice 
silent,  his  b^dy  mangled,  his  noble  figure  stiffened  into  deform 
ity  !  I  shivered  as  with  an  ague-fit  when  1  remembered  that  it 
was  from  my  lips  she  was  to  hear  all  this. 

An  examination  of  the  body  proved  two  thii  us  which  struck 
me  with  surprise.  It  was  found  that  the  fatal  \«.  mind  had  been 
received  in  front,  and  that  it  naci  been  inflicted  I  y  a  rifle-bullet 
How  to  account  for  this  I  knew  not.  1  had  scru  no  riiie  among1 
the  weapons  carried  by  any  of  the  outlaws;  and  even  11'  thfre 
had  been,  how  should  the  shot  have  taken  o  licet  in  front,  lie 
flying  from  them  —  evidently  in  rapid  flight  when  shot,  and 
they  some  distance  behind  him  ?  There  was  only  (me  way  at 
that  moment  to  account  for  this,  and  that  was  to  suppose  that 
some  associate  of  the  pursuers  had  either  been  stationed  in  front, 
or  had,  opportunely  for  them,  ;tpp«>-r-<Hl  there  as  he  approached 
the  point  where  he  had  fallen,  '.".i.ough  still  unsatisfactory  to 
me,  and  perhaps  to  all,  we  were  yet  compelled,  in  'he  absence 
of  all  better  knowledge,  to  content  ourselves  with  a  conjecture, 
which,  though  plausible  enough,  die1  not  satisfy  us.  I  felt  that 
there  was  some  mystery  still  in  the  transaction,  and  that  Wil 
liam  had  not  been  slain  willingly  by  the  pursuers.  Webber  had 
headed  them,  and  why  should  he  have  been  so  prompt  to  mur 
der  one,  and  spare  another  —  ay,  even  protect  him  from  harm 
—  who  was  so  completely  in  his  power?  There  was  as  litile 
personal  hostility  toward  William  in  the  mind  of  Webber  as 
toward  me  —  and  vet  the  blood,  warmed  by  pursuit,  might  have 
grown  too  rash  for  the  deliberate  resolve  even  'jf  one  so  habitu 
ally  cool  as  the  master-villain  on  this  occasion. 


194  RICHARD    FTUTimS. 

Ivoubts  thickened  in  my  mind  with  every  added  moment  of 
conjecture,  and  at  length  I  strove  to  think  no  more  upon  it.  \ 
resolved  to  do  so,  though  I  soon  found  my  resolution  idle.  How 
could  I  forbear  the  thought,  when  I  found  it  had  made  my  hair 
gray  in  that  single  night !  Either  that  or  my  fears  had  done 
so,  and  I  fain  would  believe  it  was  not  the  latter.  I  could  think 
nowr  of  nothing  else  That  mangled  body  lay  before  me  which 
ever  way  I  turned.  I  saw  the  ghastly  glaze  upon  the  starting 
eye  that  bulged  hilf  way  from  its  socket.  I  saw  that  mouth, 
whose  smile  it  had  been  a  pleasure  to  see,  distorted  from  its  natu 
ral  shape,  and  smeared  with  dust  and  mire.  There,  tco  was  the 
narrow  orifice  thrcugh  which  life  had  rushed,  prayerles<?  per 
haps,  and  oh,  with  siich  terrific  abruptness!  I  thought  then  of 
all  his  ways  —  his  fvank,  hearty  laugh,  his  generous  spirit,  his 
free,  bold  character,  his  love  of  truth,  his  friendship,  and  the 
sweet  heart-ties  which  had  bound  him  to  life  and  earth,  and 
warmed  him  with  promising  hopes,  never  to  be  fulfilled.  That 
last  thought  was  the  psng  above  all.  Poor  William  —  po^r  Ytz- 
meiine !  Little,  in  the  gushing  fullness  of  tJ-ei-  rni*ed  ho;:**. 
di-i  ib^'r  hearts  dream  of  «  des*inv  Hkn  thi* ! 


AUSE — BUT   NOT   REPOSE.  195 


C1I  A  PTER    XXVI  II 

PAUSE  —  BUT    NOT    KKPOSB. 

-Well!    he  i8«U-ml 

Murdei'et]  perhaps!   an«l  I  iun  f;iint,  ninl  (Vel 

As  if  it  were  no  painful  thmg  to  .lid" — COLKKIDGK. 

WITH  a  stunned  mind  and  most  miserable  feelings,  I  was  A!- 
nu.st  led  a\vay  by  Colonel  Grafton  to  liis  dwelling.  For  three 
days  1  could  resolve  on  nothing.  In  that  time  \ve  committed 
William  to  the  earth.  A  quiet  spot  under  a  clump  of  venerable 
oaks,  which  the  colonel  had  chosen  for  his  own  final  resting- 
place,  afforded  one  to  my  friend.  The  heavy  moss  depended 
from  the  trees  above  him,  and  the  warm  sun  came  to  his  turf  in 
subdued  glances  through  the  withered  leaves.  Hirds  had  built 
their  nests  from  time  immemorial  in  their  boughs,  and  the  con 
stant  rabbit  might  be  seen  leaping  in  the  long,  yellow  grasses 
beneath  them,  when  the  dusky  shadows  of  evening  were  about 
to  fall.  The  hunter  never  crept  to  this  spot  to  pursue  his  game 
of  death.  The  cruel  instrument  of  his  sport  was  forbidden  to 
sound  therein.  The  place  was  hallowed  to  solemn  sleep  and 
to  the  brooding  watchfulness  of  happy  spirits ;  and  in  its  quiet 
round  we  left  the  inanimate  form  of  one  whose  heart  had  been  as 
lovely  in  its  performances  as  to  the  eye  were  the  serene  shadows 
of  the  spot  where  we  laid  him.  I  envied  him  the  peace  which 
I  was  sure  his  spirit  knew,  when  we  put  his  body  out  of  sight. 
God  help  me,  for  truly  there  was  little  that  felt  like  peace  in 
mine  ! 

For  three  days,  as  I  said  before,  I  was  like  one  stunned  and 
deafened.  I  had  no  quickness  to  perceive,  nor  ability  to  ex 
amine.  My  thoughts  were  a  perfect  chaos,  and  ccntinual  and 
crowding  images  of  death  were  passing  before  my  eyes.  The 
kind  friends  with  whom  I  lingered  during  this  brief  but  moist 


196  RICHiRD    HURDIS. 

painful  period,  did  all  in  their  power  to  console  me.  They 
spared  no  attentions,  they  withheld  no  consideration,  that  might 
have  been  gratifying  to  the  bruised  and  broken  spirit.  And  yet 
no  ministerings  could  have  been  more  judicious  than  were  theirs. 
The  word  of  kindness  was  never  out  of  place.  There  was  noth 
ing  intrusive  in  their  'tendance,  but  a  general  fitness  of  speech 
and  gesture,  so  far  as  1  perceived  them,  extended  through  the 
movements  of  the  whole  family.  Colonel  Grafton,  with  a  proper 
considerateness,  entirely  forebore  the  subject  of  my  loss;  his 
words  were  few  and  well  timed ;  and,  though  they  were  not 
directly  addressed  to  my  griefs,  their  tendency  was  to  adminis 
ter  to  them.  If  his  good  sense  made  him  avoid  a  rude  tenting 
of  the  wound,  he  did  not  fall  into  the  opposite  error  of  seeking 
to  make  light  of  it.  His  countenance  had  a  subdued  gravity 
upon  it,  which  softened  into  sweetness  a  face  in  which  benig 
nity  and  manliness  were  evenly  mingled,  elevating  and  qualify 
ing  one  another,  and  his  language  was  given  to  subjects  belong 
ing  to  the  general  interests  of  humanity  which  the  mourner 
might  very  well  apply  to  his  affliction  without  being  curiously 
seen  to  do  so.  Mrs.  Grafton's  cares  were  no  less  considerate 
than  his.  My  mother  could  not  so  keenly  have  studied  my 
feelings,  nor  so  kindly  have  administered  to  them.  Julia,  too, 
seemed  to  grow  less  shy  than  usual,  and  sat  down  like  a  confi 
ding  child  beside  me,  bringing  rne  her  work  to  look  at,  and  un 
folding  to  me  the  most  valued  stores  of  her  little  library.  Sor 
row  has  no  sex,  and  woman  becomes  courageous  to  serve  in 
affliction  the  man  whom  she  would  tremble  in  prosperity  barely 
to  encounter.  Her  lover  made  his  appearance  but  once  during 
my  stay,  and  remained  but  a  short  time,  so  that  I  had  her  com 
pany  in  several  of  my  sad  rambles.  Somehow,  I  felt  my  great 
est  source  of  consolation  in  her.  It  is  probable  that  we  lerive 
strength  from  the  contemplation  of  a  weakness  which  is  greater 
than  our  own.  I  felt  it  so  with  me.  The  confiding  dependence 
of  this  lovely  girl  —  her  appeals  to  my  superior  information  — 
taught  me  at  moments  to  lose  sight  of  my  cares:  and,  perhaps, 
as  she  saw  this,  with  the  natural  arts  of  her  sex,  she  became 
more*  confiding  —  more  a  clrld. 

At  length,  I  started  from  my  stupor.     I  grew  ashamed  of  my 
weakness.     To  feel  our  losses  is  becoming  enough  —  to  yield 


PAUSE  —  BUT   NOT   IlKI'OSE.  197 

to  them  and  sink  under  their  pressure  is  base  and  unmanly 
I  was  vexed  to  think  that  Colonel  Grafton  should  have  so  long 
oeheld  me  in  the  feeble  attitude  of  grief.  I  was  determined  to 
resume  my  character. 

"  I  must  go,"  I  exclaimed;  "I  must  leave  you  to-inorrov 
colonel." 

It  was  thus  I  addressed  him  on  the  evening  of  the  third  day 
after  the  family  had  retired  for  the  night. 

"  Where  will  you  go  ]"  he  asked.  The  question  staggered 
me.  Where  was  I  to  go  1  Should  I  return  to  Marengo  \ 
Should  I  be  the  one  to  carry  suffering  to  the  poor  girl  whom 
fate  had  defrauded  of  her  lover  1  Could  I  have  strength  to 
speak  the  words  of  doom  and  misery  1  Impossible  !  On  my 
own  account  I  had  no  reason  to  return.  I  had  nothing  to  seek 
in  that  quarter  —  no  hopes  to  invite  my  steps  —  no  duty  (so  I 
fancied  then)  to  impel  me  to  retrace  a  journey  begun  with  so 
much  boldness,  and,  so  far,  pursued  with  so  much  ill  fortune. 

"  I  will  not  return,"  my  heart  said  within  inc.  "  1  dare  not. 
I  can  not  look  on  Emraeline  again.  It  was  my  pleadings  and 
persuasions,  that  made  her  lover  my  companion  in  this  fatal 
adventure,  and  how  can  I  meet  her  eye  of  reproach  'I  How 
can  I  hear  her  ask  —  'Where  is  he?  —  why  have  you  not 
brought  him  back  to  me?'  Well  did  I  remember  her  parting 
directions  —  'Take  care  of  one  another.'  Had  I  taken  care  of 
him  ?  I  was  the  more  prudent,  the  more  thoughtful  and  suspi 
cious.  I  knew  him  to  be  careless,  frank,  free,  confiding.  Had  I 
taken  due  care  of  him  ?  Had  I  been  as  watchful  as  I  should  have 
been  1  Had  I  not  suffered  him  heedlessly  to  plunge  into  the  toils 
when  a  resolute  word  of  mine  would  have  kept  him  from  them]" 

I  could  not  satisfy  myself  by  my  answer  to  these  self-pro 
posed  questions,  and  I  resolved  to  go  forward. 

"  In  the  wilds  of  Mississippi  I  will  bury  myself.  The  Losom 
of  the  '  nation'  shall  receive  me.  I  will  not  look  on  Marengo 
again.  I  will  write  to  Emmeline  —  I  will  tell  her  in  a  letter, 
what  I  dare  not  look  her  in  the  face  and  speak." 

Such  was  my  resolve ;  a  resolve  made  in  my  weakness,  and 
unworthy  of  a  noble  mind.  When  I  declared  it  to  Colonel 
Grafton,  with  the  affectionate  interest  and  freedom  of  a  father, 
he  opposed  it. 


RICHARD    JIURDIS. 

"Pardon  me,  my  young  friend,  but  are  y  m  right  in  this  re» 
olution  ?  Is  it  not  your  duty  to  go  back  and  declare  the  cir 
cumstances  to  ;ill  those  who  aro  interested  in  the  fate  of  your 
friend  (  It  will  be  expected  of  you.  To  take  any  other  course 
will  seem  to  show  a  consciousness  of  error  with  winch  you  can 
not  reproach  yourself.  Suspicion  will  become  active,  and  your 
leluctance,  which  springs  from  a  natural  dislike  to  give  pain, 
u  ill  be  set  down  to  other  and  far  less  honorable  motives.  ("In 
h;tck.  Mr.  lltirdis  —  seek  the  friends  of  Mr.  Carrington  and  your 
own.  Though  it  wring  your  heart  to  tell  the  cruel  story,  and 
rend  theirs  to  hear  it,  yet  withhold  nothing.  Take  the  counsel 
of  one  who  has  seen  too  much  of  the  world  not  to  speak  with 
due  precaution,  and  avoid  concealment  in  all  matters  of  this 
sort.  Suppress  nothing — let  nothing  that  is  at  all  equivocal 
be  coupled  with  your  conduct  where  it  affects  the  interests  of 
others.  I  have  never  yet  known  an  instance  of  departure  from 
duty  in  which  the  person  did  not  suffer  from  such  departure. 
And  it  is  your  duty  to  relate  this  matter  at  large -to  those  who 
were  connected  with  your  friend." 

"  But  I  will  write,  Colonel  Grafton  —  I  will  write  all,  and 
withhold  nothing.  My  duty  to  the  friends  and  relatives  of 
William  Carriugton  can  not  call  for  more." 

"  Your  duty  to  yourself  does.  It  requires  that  you  should 
not  shrink  from  meeting  them.  Your  letter  would  tell  them 
nothing  but  bald  fa^ts.  They  must  see  you  when  you  give 
your  testimony.  They  must  see  that  you  feel  the  pain  that 
your  duty  calls  upon  you  to  inflict.  When  you  show  them  that, 
you  give  them  the  only  consolation  v*  hich  grief  ever  demands ; 
you  give  them  sympathy,  and  their  sorrows  become  lessened  as 
they  look  on  yours.  To  this  poor  maiden,  m  particular,  you 
owe  it." 

"Ah!  Colonel  Grafton,  you  can  not  kn-'w  the  torture  which 
must  follow  such  an  interview.  It  was  1  w  ho  persuaded  him 
to  go  on  this  hapless  journey  She  heard  n.n  plead  with  him 
to  go  —  my  arguments  convinced  him.  She  will  look  on  me 
as  the  cause  of  all  —  she  will  call  me  his  murderer." 

"  You  must  bear  it  all,  and  bear  it  with  humility,  and  without 
reply.  If  she  loved  this  youth,  what  is  your  torture  to  that 
which  your  words  will  inilict  on  her  ?  You  have  the  selfish 


PAUSE-     BUT    NOT   REPOSE.  199 

strength  and  resources  of  the  man  to  uphold  you  —  \vhat  has 
she?  Nothing  —  nothing  hut  the  past.  Phantoms  of  memory 
are  all  that  are  left  to  her,  and  these  torture  as  often  as  they 
soothe.  Do  not  speak,  then,  of  your  sufferings  in  comparison 
with  hers.  She  must  of  necessity,  be  the  greatest  sufferer,  and 
you  must  submit  to  see  her  griefs,  and,  it  may  be,  to  listen  to 
iier  reproaches.  These  will  fall  lightly  on  your  ears  when  you 
can  reproach  yourself  with  nothing.  If  you  did  not  submit  to 
fhem  —  if  you  fled  from  the  task  before  you  —  in  place  of  her 
lujproaches  you  would  have  her  suspicions,  and  your  own  self- 
rebuke  in  all  future  time." 

He  had  put  the  matter  before  me  in  a  new  light,  and,  with  a 
«m»,  1  changed  my  purpose,  resolving  to  stnrt  for  Marcngo  in 
'J.W  morning.  Meanwhile,  let  mo  relate  thf  progrosj  of  other 
to  this  narrative. 


200  RICHARD    HURDW 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

THE    ASSASSIN    AM)    HIS    K.MPLPYER 
"  I've  _one  the  deed." 


THE  murderer  of  William  lay  close  in  the  tliickct  after  hr 
.Nad  done  the  deed.  That  murderer  vras  l>en  Pickett,  ana.  a* 
the  reader  may  have  divined  already,  his  victim  had  perisnea 
through  mistake.  The  fatal  cause  of  this  was  in  his  employ 
ment  of  my  horse,  a  circumstance  forced  upon  him  by  the  ne 
cessities  of  his  flight.  Pickett  knew  the  horse,  and  lo  /ked  no 
further.  It  was  a  long  shot,  from  a  risii  ^-ground  above,  whero 
the  umbrage  was  thick,  and  at  such  a  distance  that  features 
ivere  not  clearly  distinguishable.  The  dress  of  William  unfor 
tunately  helped  the  delusion.  It  was  almost  entirely  like  mine. 
We  had  been  so  completely  associated  together  for  years,  that 
our  habits  and  tastes  in  many  respects  had  become  assimilated. 
The  murderer,  having  satisfied  himself  —  which  he  did  at  a 
glance  —  that  the  horse  was  mine,  it  was  the  prompt  conclu 
sion  of  his  mind  that  I  was  the  rider.  Crin.o  is  seldom  delibe 
rate  —  the  mere  act,  I  mean  —  the  determination  may  be  delib 
erately  enough  made;  but  the  blow  is  most  usually  given  ib 
haste,  as  if  the  criminal  dreaded  that  he  might  shrink  from  an 
act  already  resolved  upon.  Pickett  did  not  trust  himself  tt 
look  a  second  time  before  pulling  trigger.  Had  he  suffered  the 
rider  to  advance  ten  paces  more,  he  would  have  withdrawn  the 
ei^ht.  The  courage  of  man  is  never  certain  but  when  he  is  do 
ing  what  he  feels  to  be  right.  The  wrong-doer  may  be  despe 
rate  and  furious,  but  he  Imp  no  composed  bearing.  Pickett  was 
of  this  sort.  lie  shot  almost  instantly  after  peeing  the  horse 
He  was  about  to  come  ten-ward  when  he  saw  the  rider  tumble; 
but  the  sudden  approach  of  the  pursuers,  whose  fon»f  bad  been 


THE   ASSASSIN    AND    HIS    EMPLOYER.  201 

concealed  by  the  narrow  and  enclosed  "blind"  through  which 
they  passed,  compelled  him  to  resume  his  position,  and  remain 
quiet.  He  saw  them  take  charge  of  the  body,  but  had  lit  lie 
idea  that  their  aim,  like  his  own,  had  been  vulturous.  He  saw 
them  busy  about  the  prey  which  his  blow  had  struck  down,  but 
concluded  that  they  were  friends  seeking  to  succor  and  to  save. 
Under  any  circumstances,  his  hope  of  plunder  was  now  cut  off, 
and  he  silently  withdrew  into  the  forest,  where  his  horse  had 
been  hidden,  and,  hurriedly  remounting,  commenced  his  return 
to  Marengo.  But  an  eye  was  upon  him  that  never  lost  sight 
of  him.  The  keen  hunter  that  Matthew  Webber  had  set  upon 
his  path  had  found  his  track,  and  pursued  it  with  the  unerring 
scent  of  the  bloodhound.  More  than  once  the  pursuer  could 
have  shot  down  the  fugitive  with  a  weapon  as  little  anticipated, 
and  as  unerring,  as  that  which  he  himself  had  employed;  but 
he  had  no  purpose  of  this  sort  in  view.  He  silently  followed 
on,  keeping  close  watch  upon  every  movement,  yet  never  suf 
fering  himself  to  be  seen.  AVhen  the  murderer  paused  by  the 
wayside,  he  halted  also;  when  he  sped  toward  evening,  he  too 
relaxed  his  reins;  and  lie  drew  them  up  finally,  only  when  he 
beheld  the  former,  with  an  audacity  which  he  never  showed 
while  I  dwelt  in  Marengo,  present  himself  at  the  entrance  of 
my  father's  plantation,  and  request  to  sec  my  brother.  The 
pursuer  paused  also  at  this  moment,  and  entering  a  little  but 
dense  wood  on  one  side  of  the  road,  quietly  dismounted  from 
his  horse,  which  he  fastened  in  the  deepest  thicket,  and,  under 
cover  of  the  under-brush,  crept  forward  as  nearly  as  he  could,  to 
the  place  where  Pickett  waited,  without  incurring  any  risk  of 
detection. 

It  was  not  long  before  John  Ilurdis  came  to  the  gate,  and  his 
coward  soul  made  its  appearance  in  his  face,  the  moment  that  he 
saw  his  confederate.  His  lips  grew  livid  and  quivered,  his  cheeks 
were  whiter  than  his  shirt,  and  his  voice  so  feeble,  when  he 
attempted  to  speak,  that  he  could  only  articulate  at  a.H  by  uttering 
himself  with  vehemency  and  haste. 

"Ah,  Pickett,  that  you?  —  well!  what?" 

The  murderer  had  not  alighted  from  his  horse,  and  he  now  simply 
bent  forward  to  the  other,  as  ho  hr-.lf  wh>pen\l  — 

"It's  all  fixed,  'squire!  The  nail's  clinched!  You  cm 

9* 


202  RICHARD    IIURDFJ. 

take  the  road  now  when  you  please,  aud  find  m  Jiing  to  trip 
you." 

"  Ha !  but  you  do  not  mean  it,  Ben  ?  It  is  not  as  you  oay  I 
You  have  not  done  it !  Are  you  sure  ?  —  Did  you  see  ?" 

"  It's  done  !  — I  tell  you,  as  sure's  a  gun  !" 

"He's  dead,  then?"  said  John  Hurdis  in  a  husky  whisper  — 
"  Richard  Hurdis  is  dead,  you  say  ?"  and  he  tottered  forward 
to  the  rider,  with  a  countenance  in  which  fear  and  eagerness 
were  so  mingled  as  to  produce  an  unquiet  shrinking  even  ia  the 
bosom  of  his  confederate. 

"  I've  said  it,  'squire,  and  I'll  say  it  again  to  please  you  !  I 
had  dead  aim  on  his  button — just  here  [he  laid  his  hand  on  his 
breast]  —  and  I  saw  him  tumble  and  come  down  all  in  a  heap 
like  a  bag  of  feathers.  There's  no  doctors  can  do  him  good 
now,  I  tell  you.  He's  laid  up  so  that  they  won't  take  him 
down  again  —  nobody.  You  can  go  to  sleep  now  when  you 
please." 

The  greater  felon  of  the  two  shrank  back  as  he  heard  those 
words,  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  He  seemed  scarce 
able  to  stand,  and  leaned  against  the  posts  of  the  gate  for  ins 
support.  A  sudden  shivering  came  over  him,  and  when  that 
passed  off,  he  laughed  brokenly  as  if  with  a  slight  convulsion, 
and  the  corners  of  his  mouth  were  twitched  until  the  tears  start 
ed  in  his  eyes.  To  what  particular  feeling,  whether  of  remorse 
or  satisfaction,  he  owed  these  emotions,  it  would  be  difficult  for 
me  to  say,  as  it  was  certainly  impossible  for  his  comrade  to  con 
ceive.  Pickett  looked  on  with  wondering,  and  was  half  inclined 
to  doubt  whether  his  propiietor  was  not  out  of  his  wits.  But  a 
few  moments  reassured  him  as  John  Hurdis  again  came  forward. 
His  tones  were  more  composed,  though  still  unsubdued,  when  he 
addressed  him,  and,  perhaps,  something  more  of  human  appre 
hension  dwelt  upon  lu'*  countenance. 

"  You  have  told  me,  Ben  Pickett,  but  I  am  not  certain. 
Richard  Hurdis  wae  a  strong  man  —  he  wouldn't  die  easily  ! 
He  would  fight — he  would  strike  to  the  last !  How  could  you 
stand  against  him?  Why,  Ben,  he  would  crush  you  with  a 
blow  of  his  fist !  He  was  monstrous  strc  jg  !" 

"  Why,  'squire,  what  are  you  talking  about  ?  Pick  Hurdis 
was  strong,  I  know  and  stout-hearted.  He  would  hold  on  till 


THE   ASSASSIN   AND   HIS   EMPLOYER.  203 

his  teeth  met,  for  there  was  no  scare  in  him.  But  that's  nothing  to 
the  matter  now,  for,  you  sec,  there  was  no  fight  at  all.  The  rifle  did 
the  business  —  long  shot  and  steady  aim  ;  so,  you  see,  all  his  strength 
went  for  nothing." 

"  But  how  could  he  let  you  trap  him,  Ben  Pickctt  ?  Richard  Avas 
suspicious  and  always  on  the  watch.  He  wouldn't  fall  easily 
into  a  trap.  There  must  be  some  mistake,  Ben  — some  mistake. 
You're  only  joking  with  me,  Ben  ;  you  have  not  found  him  ? 
He  was  too  much  ahead  of  you,  and  got  off.  Well,  it's 
just  as  well  you  let  him  go.  I  don't  care.  Indeed,  I'm  almost 
glad  you  didn't  reach  him.  He's  in  the  '  nation,'  I  suppose,  by  this 
time  ? " 

"But  I  did  reach  him,  "squire,"  replied  the  oilier,  not  exactly 
knowing  how  to  account  for  the  purposeless  tenor  of  John 
Ilurdis's  speech,  and  wondering  much  at  the  unlooked-for  relenting 
of  purpose  which  it  implied.  There  was  something  in  this  last 
sentence  which  annoyed  Pickett  as  much  as  it  surprised  him.  It 
seemed  to  imply  that  his  employer  might  not  be  altogether  satisfied 
with  him  when  lie  became  persuaded  of  UK- truth  of  what  he  said. 
He  hastened,  therefore,  to  reiterate  his  story. 

"He'll  never  get  nearer  to  the  'nation 'than  he  is  now.  I  lell 
you,  'squire,  I  come  upon  him  on  a  by-road  leading  out  from  Tusca- 
loosa,  that  run  along  among  a  range  of  hills  where  I  kept.  There 
was  a  d ou We  hill  close  by,  and  the  road  run  through  it  ;  it  was  a  dark 
road.  I  tracked  him  and  Bill  Carrington  twice  over  the  ground. 
They  had  business  farther  down  with  a  man  named  \Vebber.  and 
they  stopped  all  night  with  a  Colonel  Grafton.  I  got  from  one  of  his 
negroes  all  about  it.  Well,  I  watched  when  he  was  to  come  back. 
When  I  heard  them  making  tracks,  I  put  myself  in  the  br.sh,  clear 
ahead,  in  a  place  where  they  couldn't  come  upon  me  till  I  was  clean 
out  of  reach.  Soon  he  came  running  like  mad,  then  I  give  it  to  him, 
and  down  he  come,  I  tell  you,  like  a  miller's  bag  struck  all  in 
a  heap." 

"  But  that  didn't  kill  him  ?  He  was  only  hurt.  You're  not  sure, 
Ben,  that  he's  dead  ?  You  didn't  look  at  him  closely  ? " 

"  Xo  ;  dickens  !  they  were  too  hard  upon  me  for  that.  But  I  saw 
where  I  must  hit  him,  and  I  saw  him  tumble." 

"  Who  were  upon  you  ?"  demanded  Hurdis. 

"  Why,  Bill  Carrington,  and  the  man  he  went  to  sec,  I  suppose.   I 


204  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

didn't  stop  to  look  ;  for,  just  as  I  sprawled  him  out  they  came  from 
the  road  behind  him,  and  I  saw  no  more.  You  didn't  tell  me  that 
Bill  Carrington  was  going  with  him." 

"  No  ;  I  wasn't  certain.  I  didn't  know.  But  didn't  Carrington 
come  after  you,  when  you  shot  Richard  ?  " 

"  I  reckon  he  was  too  much  frightened  ;  he  jumped  down  beside 
the  body,  and  that  was  all  I  stopped  to  see.  I  made  off,  and  fetched 
a  compass  through  the  woods  that  brought  me  out  with  dry  feet  into 
another  road.  Then  I  kept  on  without  stopping,  and  that's  all  I  can 
tell  you." 

"  It  was  strange  Bill  Carrington  didn't  take  after  you';  he's  not  a 
man  to  be  frightened  easily." 

"  He  didn't,  though." 

"But  you're  not  sure,  Ben,  after  all.  Perhaps  you've  only  hurt 
him.  You  have  not  killed  him,  I  think.  It's  a  hard  thing  to  shoot 
certain  at  a  great  distance.  You  were  far  off,  you  say  ? " 

"A  hundred  yards,  or  so,  and  that's  nothing,  being  down  hill 
too." 

"  Richard  was  a  tough  fellow." 

"  Tough  or  not,  I  tell  you,  'squire,  he'll  never  trouble  you  again  ! 
It's  all  over  with  him  !  They've  got  him  under  ground  before  this 
time.  I  know  by  the  sort  of  fall  he  gave  that  he  hadn't  any  life  left. 
He  didn't  know  what  hurt  him." 

John  Hurdis  seemed  convinced  at  last. 

"And  yet  to  think,  Ben,  that  a  man  so  strong  as  Richard  should 
die  so  sudden  !  It  was  only  a  week  ago  that  he  had  his  hand  on  my 
throat  —  he  had  me  down  upon  the  ground  —  he  shook  me  like 
a  feather.  And  he  spoke  with  a  voice  that  went  through  me. 
I  was  like  an  infant  in  his  hands ;  I  felt  that  he  could  have 
torn  me  in  two.  And  now,  you  say,  he  can  not  lift  an  arm  to  help 
himself  ! " 

"No,  not  to  wave  off  a  buzzard  from  his  carrion  !"  was  tho 
reply. 

The  arm  of  John  Ilurdis  fell  on  the  neck  of  Pickett's  horse  at 
these  words,  and  his  eyes,  wilh  a  vacant  stare,  were  fixed  upon  the 
rider.  After  a  brief  pause,  he  thus  proceeded,  in  a  muttered 
soliloquy,  rather  than  an  address  to  his  hearer  : — 

"If  Richard  would  have  gone  off  quietly,  and  let  me  alone; 
if  — but  what's  the  use  to  talk  of  that  ROW?"  He  paused,  but 


THE   ASSASSIN   AND    HIS    EMPLOYEE.  205 

again  began,  in  similar  tones  and  like  a  spirit :  "He  was  too  rash  — 
too  tyrannical  !  Flesh  and  blood  could  not  bear  with  him,  Ben  ! 
He  would  have  mastered  all  around  him  if  he  could  —  trampled  upon 
all  —  suffered  no  life  to  any — spared  no  feelings!  He  was  cruel  — 
cruel  to  you,  and  to  me,  and  to  all ;  and  then  to  drag  me  from  my 
horse,  and  take  me,  his  own  brother,  by  the  throat  !  But,  it's  all 
over  now.  lie  has  ps»id  .for  it,  Ben  !  I  wish  he  hadn't  done  it, 
though  ;  for  then  —  but,  no  matter,  this  talk's  all  very  useless  now." 

Here  he  recovered  himself,  and  in  more  direct  and  calmer  language, 
thus  continued,  while  giving  his  agent  a  part  of  the  money  which  he 
had  promised  him  :  — 

"Go,  now,  Pickett  —  to  your  own  home.  Let  us  not  be  seen 
together  much.  Take  this  money  —  'tisn't  all  I  mean  to  give  you.  I 
will  bring  you  more." 

The  willing  fellow  pocketed  the  price  of  blood,  and  made  his 
acknowledgments.  Thanks,  too,  were  given  by  the  murderer,  as  if 
the  balance  of  credit  lay  with  him  who  paid  in  money  for  the  life  of 
his  fellow-creature. 

"I  will  come  to  you  to-night,"  continued  Hurdis,  "  I  would  hear 
all  of  this  business.  I  would  know  more  —  stay!  What  is  that? 
Some  one  comes  —  hear  you  nothing,  Ben  ?" 

Guilt  had  made  my  wretched  brother  doubly  a  coward.  The  big 
sweat  came  out  and  stood  upon  his  forehead,  and  his  eyes  wore  tiie 
irresolute  expression  of  one  about  to  fly.  The  composure  with  which 
his  companion  looked  round,  half  reassured  him. 

"No —  there's  nobody,"  said  the  other,  "  a  squirrel  jumped  in  the 
wood,  perhaps." 

"Well  — I'll  come  to  night,  Ben  — I'll  meet  you  at  the  Willows." 

"  Won't  you  come  to  the  house,  'Squire  ?  " 

"No!"  was  the  abrupt  reply.  The  speaker  recollected  his  late 
interview  with  the  stern  wife  of  his  colleague,  an;!  had  no  desire  to 
encounter  her  again  :  "  Xo,  Ben  ;  I'll  be  at  the  Willows." 

"  What  time,  'Squire  '?  " 

"  I  can't  say,  now  —  but  you'll  hear  my  signal.  Three  hoots,  and 
a  long  bark." 

"Very  good  —  I'll  be  sure." 

John  Hurdis  remained  at  the  gate  a  long  time  after  Pickett  rode 
away.  He  watched  his  retreating  form  while  it  continued  in  sight, 
then  seated  himself  on  the  ground  where  he  had  been  standing,  and 


20G  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

unconsciously,  with  a  little  stick,  began  to  draw  characters  in  the 
sand.  To  the  labors  of  his  fingers,  his  uiiud  seemed  to  be  utterly 
heedless,  until,  aroused  to  a  sense  of  what  he  was  doing  and  where  he 
sat,  by  the  approach  of  some  of  the  field  negroes  returning  from  the 
labors  of  the  day.  lie  started  to  his  feet  as  he  heard  their  voices,  but 
how  did  his  guilty  heart  tremble,  when,  his  eye  took  in  the  letters  that 
he  had  unwittingly  traced  upon  the  sand.  Tiie  word  ' '  murderer  "  was 
distinctly  written  in  large  characters, 'before  his  eyes.  With  a  des 
perate,  but  trembling  haste,  as  if  he  dreaded  lest  other  c'3'cs  should 
behold  it  too,  he  dashed  his  feet  over  the  letters,  nor  stayed  his  efforts 
even  when  they  were  perfectly  obliterated.  Fool  that  he  was  —  of 
what  avail  was  all  his  toil  ?  He  might  erase  the  guilty  letters  from 
the  sand,  but  they  were  written  upon  his  soul  in  characters  that  no 
hand  could  reach,  and  no  labors,  obliterate.  The  fiend  was  there  in 
full  possession,  and  his  tortures  were  only  now  begun. 


THE   SPECTRE.  207 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

TIIE   SPECTRE. 
"  Let  the  earth  hide  thce."— SHAKSPERE. 

THE  murderer  hurried  homeward  when  this  dark  conference 
was  ended.  The  affair  in  which  he  had  acted  so  principal,  yet 
secondary  a  part,  had  exercised  a  less  obvious  influence  upon  him 
than  upon  the  yet  baser  person  who  had  egged  him  on  to  the  deed. 
There  was  no  such  revulsion  of  feeling  in  his  bosom,  as  in  that 
of  John  Hurdis.  Endowed  with  greater  nerve  at  first,  and 
rendered  obtuse  from  habit  and  education,  the  nicer  sensibilities  — 
the  keener  apprehensions  of  the  mind  —  were  not  sufliciently 
active  in  him  to  warm  at  any  recital,  when  the  deed  itself, 
which  it  narrated,  had  failed  to  impress  him  with  terror  or  re 
pentance.  If  he  did  not  tremble  to  do,  still  less  was  he  disposed 
to  tremble  at  the  bare  story  of  his  misdoings  ;  and  he  rode  away 
with  a  due  increase  of  scorn  for  the  base  spirit  and  cowardly 
heart  of  his  employer.  And  yet,  perhaps,  Pickctt  had  never 
belu'.ld  John  Hurdis  in  any  situation  in  which  his  better  feelings 
had  been  more  prominent.  The  weaknesses,  which  the  one 
despised,  were  the  only  shows  of  virtue  in  the  other.  The  cowardly 
wretch,  when  he  supposed  the  deed  to  have  been  done  on 
which  he  had  sent  his  unhesitating  messenger  —  felt,  for  the  first 
time,  that  it  would  not  only  have  been  wiser  but  better,  to 
have  borne  patiently  with  his  wrong,  rather  than  so  foully  to 
have  revenged  it.  He  felt  that  it  would  have  been  easier  to  sleep 
under  the  operation  of  injustice  than  to  become  one's  self  a  crim 
inal.  Bitterly  indeed  did  this  solemn  truth  grow  upon  him  in 
the  end,  when  sleep,  at  length,  utterly  refused  to  come  at  his 
bidding. 

But,   though  the  obvious  fears  and   compunctious   vjsitings  of 


208  ItlCIIARD   HURDIS. 

his  employer  had  provoked  the  scorn  of  the  murderer,  it  was 
decreed  that  he  himself  should  not  be  altogether  free  from  sim 
ilar  weaknesses.  They  developed  themselves  before  he  reached 
his  home.  It  was  nearly  dusk  when  he  entered  the  narrow  by 
road  which  led  to  his  habitation  —  night  was  fast  coining  on, 
yet  the  twilight  was  sufficiently  clear  to  enable  him  to  distin 
guish  objects.  Without  a  thought,  perhaps,  of  the  crime  of 
which  he  had  been  guilty,  or  rather,  without  a  regretful  thought, 
he  pursued  his  way  until  the  road  opened  upon  his  dwelling. 
The  habitation  of  his  wife  and  child  stood  before  him.  lie 
could  now  see  the  smoke  rising  from  the  leaning  clay  chimney, 
and  his  heart  rose  with  the  prospect  —  for  the  very  basest  of 
mankind  have  hearts  for  their  homes  —  but,  all  on  a  sudden,  he 
jerked  his  bridle  with  a  violence  that  whirled  the  animal  out 
from  his  path ;  and  then  his  grasp  became  relaxed.  He  had 
strength  for  no  more  —  he  had  neither  power  to  advance  nor 
fly.  In  an  instant  the  avenues  to  all  his  fears  were  in  posses 
sion  of  a  governing  instinct.  Guilt  and  terror  spoke  in  all  his 
features.  His  glazed  eyes  seemed  starting  from  their  sockets 

—  his    jaws    relaxed  —  his    mouth    opened — his    hair    started    up, 
and  the    cold    dews    gathered    at    its    roots  !     What    sees    he  ?  — 
what    is  in   his  path   to   make    him    fear  ?     Why    does    the    bold 
ruffian,    ready  at   all   times   to   stab   or  shoot  —  why   does  he    lift 
no    weapon   now  ?     He  is  sinewless,    aimless,   strengthless.    [There 
rose  before  him,   even   at   the  gate   of  his  hovel,  a  fearful  image 
of  the   man    he    supposed    himself    to   have    murdered^   It  stood 

^between  him  and  the  narrow  gateway  so  that  he  could  not  go 
/forward  in  his  progress.  The  gaze  of  the  spectre  was  earnestly 
/  bent  upon  him  with  such  a  freezing  glance  of  death  and  doom 

(as  the  victim  might  well  be  supposed  to  wear  in  confronting 
his  murderer.  The  bloody  hole  in  his  bosom  was  awfully  dis 
tinct  to  the  eyes  oS  .the  now  trembling  criminal,  who  could  see 
little  or  nothing  else.  His  knees  knocked  together  convulsively 

—  his  wiry  hair   lifted    the    cap    upon    his    brow.     Cold    as    the 
mildewed  marble,   yet  shivering  like  an  autumn  branch    wraving 
in  the  sudden  winds,  he  was  frozen  to  the  spot  where  it  encoun 
tered    him  —  he    could    neither    speak  nor  move.     Vainly  did  he 
attempt  to  lift  the  weapon  in  his  grasp  —  his  arms  were  stiffened 
to  his  side  — his  will  was    not    powerful    enough  to  compel    its 


THE  SPECTRE.  209 

natural  agents  to  their  duty.  He  strove  to  thrust  the  rowel  into 
his  horse's  flanks,  but  even  to  this  effort  he  found  himself  unequal. 
Twice  did  he  strive  to  cry  aloud  to  the  threatening  aspect  before  Mm, 
in  words  of  entreaty  or  defiance,  but  his  tongue  refused  its  office.  The 
words  froze  in  his  throat,  and  it  was  only  able  in  a  third  and  desper 
ate  effort  to  articulate  words  which  denoted  idiocy  rather  than 
resolve. 

"Stand  aside,  Richard  Hurdis  —  stand  aside,  or  I'll  run  over  you. 
You  would  tie  me  to  the  tree  —  you  would  try  hickories  upon  me, 
would  you  ?  Go —  go  to  John  Hurdis  now,  and  he'll  tell  you  I'm  not 
afraid  of  you.  No,  d —  — n  my  eyes  if  1  am,  though  he  is  !  I'm  not 
afraid  of  your  bloody  finger  —  shake  it  away  —  shake  it  away! 
There's  a  hole  in  your  jacket  wants  mending,  man  ;  you'd  better  see 
to  it  'fore  it  gets  worse.  I  see  the  red  stuff  coming  out  of  it  now.  Go 
—  stand  off,  or  I'll  hurt  you  !  —  ptsho  —  ptsho — ptsho  !  " 

And,  as  he  uttered  this  wandering  and  incoherent  language,  his 
limbs  strengthened  sufficiently  to  enable  him,  to  employ  wit  hone  hand, 
the  action  of  a  person  hallooing  hogs  out  of  his  enclosure.  The  sound 
of  his  own  voice  seemed  to  unfix  the  spell  upon  him.  The  ghostly 
figure  sank  down  before  his  mazed  eyes  and  advancing  footsteps,  in  a 
heap,  like  one  suddenly  slain,  and  as  he  had  seen  his  victim  fall.  It  lay 
directly  before  him  :  he  pressed  his  horse  upon  it,  but  it  disapear- 
ed  before  he  reached  the  spot.  A  brief  space  yet  lay  between  the  gate 
and  the  hovel,  and,  passing  through  the  former,  he  was  about  to  plunge 
with  a  like  speed  toward  the  latter,  when  another  figure,  and  one,  too, 
much  more  terrific  to  the  fears  of  the  ruffian  than  the  first,  took  its 
place,  and  the  person  of  William  Carrington  emerged  at  that  moment 
from  the  dwelling  itself,  and  stood  before  him  in  the  doorway  !  If 
Pickett  himseif  trembled  before  under  his  superstitious  imaginings, 
he  trembled  now  with  apprehensions  of  a  more  human  description. 
It  was  the  vulgar  fear  of  the  fugitive  that  possessed  him  now.  He 
felt  that  he  was  pursued.  He  saw  before  him  the  friend  of  the  man 
he  had  murdered,  speeding  in  hot  haste  to  wreak  vengeance  on  his 
murderer.  In  the  dread  of  cord  or  shot,  he  lost  in  a  single  instant  all 
his  former  and  paralyzing  terror  arising  from  the  blighting  visitation 
of  the  world  of  spirits.  He  was  no  longer  frozen  by  fear.  He  was 


210  RICHARD  HURDIS. 

strengthened  and  stimulated  for  flight  by  the  appearance  of  Carring- 
ton.  He  turned  the  head  of  his  horse,  and,  with  the  movement,  the 
avenger  advanced  upon  him.  He  felt  that  there  was  no  escape.  There 
was  no  hope  in  flight.  In  desparatiou,  he  threw  himself  from  the 
animal  —  lifted  his  rifle,  and,  in  taking  deadly  aim  upon  the  figure, 
was  surprised  to  see  it  move  away  with  rapid  footsteps  and  sink  into 
the  neighboring  woods,  in  the  shadow  of  which  it  was  soon  lost  from 
sight.  The  conduct  of  Oarrington  was  more  mysterious  to  the  crimi 
nal  than  was  the  appearance  of  the  spectre  just  before.  If  he  came 
as  the  avenger  of  his  friend,  how  strange  that  he  should  fly  !  And 
how  could  such  timidity  be  believed  of  one  so  notoriously  brave  as 
the  man  in  question  ?  The  wonder  grew  in  his  mind  the  more  he  re 
viewed  it,  and  he  found  it  easier  to  continue  in  his  wonderment  than 
to  seek  by  any  reference  to  his  past  experience  and  present  thoughts 
for  any  solution  of  the  mystery. 

Pale  and  cold  with  fright,  he  at  last  entered  his  hovel  without 
further  interruption.  The  anxious  and  searching  eyes  of  his  wife 
beheld  in  an  instant  the  disordered  emotion  so  prominent  in  his,  and 
her  fears  were  renewed. 

"  What  is  it,  Ben  —  what  disturbs  you  ?  why  do  you  look  around 
so  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"How  long  has  he  been  here  ?  when  did  he  come  ?  what  does  he 
want  ? "  were  the  rapid  questions  which  the  criminal  uttered  in 
reply. 

"Who  —  who  has  been  here?  of  whom  do  you  ask? "was  the 
response  of  the  astonished  wife. 

"  Why,  Bill  Carrington,  to  be  sure —  who  else  ?  I  saw  him  come 
out  of  the  door  just  this  minute,  and  take  to  the  woods.  What  did 
he  want  ?  where's  he  gone  ? —  who's  he  looking  for —  eh  ?  " 

"You're  sick,  Ben,"  said  the  wife;  "your  head's  disordered. 
You'd  better  lie  down." 

''Can't  you  answer  me  a  plain  question?"  was  his  peremptory 
answer  to  her  suggestion  ;  "  I  ask  you  what  Bill  Carrington  wanted 
with  me  or  with  you  ?  " 

"  He  ?  —  nothing  that  I  know  of.     He  hasn't  been  here,  Ben," 


THE    SPECTRE.  211 

"The  devil  you  say?  Better  tell  me  I'm  drunk  —  when  I 
saw  him,  with  my  own  eyes,  come  out  just  a  moment  ago,  and 
take  to  the  woods  ! " 

"You  may  have  seen  him  in  the  woods,  but  I'm  sure  you 
didn't  see  him  come  out  of  this  house.  I've  been  in  this  room 
for  the  last  hour  —  never  once  out  of  it  —  and  nobody  but  my 
self  and  Jane  in  it  —  and  nobody's  been  here  that  either  of  us 
iias  seen." 

The  man  turned  to  Jane,  and,  reading  in  her  eyes  a  confirma 
tion  of  her  mother's  speech,  lie  looked  vacantly  around  him  for 
a  few  moments ;  then  lifting  his  rille,  which  he  had  leaned  up 
within  the  entrance,  rushed  out  of  the  house,  and  hurried  to  the 
woods  in  search  of  the  person  whom  he  had  seen  disappear 
there.  lie  was  gone  for  an  hour,  when  he  returned  exhausted. 
In  that  time  his  search  had  been  close  and  thorough  for  a  cir 
cuit  of  several  miles,  in  all  those  recesses  which  he  had  been 
accustomed  to  regard  as  hiding-places,  and  which,  it  may  be 
added,  he  had  repeatedly  used  as  such.  The  exhaustion  that 
followed  his  disappointment  was  an  exhaustion  of  mind  rather 
than  of  body.  The  vagueness  and  mystery  which  attended  all 
these  incidents  had  utterly  confounded  him,  and  when  he  re 
turned  to  the  presence  of  his  wife  he  almost  seemed  to  lack  the 
facilities  c.f  speech  and  hearing.  lie  spoke  but  little,  and,  observing 
his  fatigue,  and  probably  ascribing  his  strange  conduct  to  a  sudden 
excess  of  drink,  his  wife  prudently  forebore  all  unnecessary  remarks 
and  questions. 

Night  hurried  on  ;  darkness  had  covered  the  face  of  the  earth, 
and  in  silence  the  wife  and  idiot  child  of  the  criminal  had  com 
menced  their  evening  meal,  Pickett  keeping  his  place  at  the 
fireside  without  heeding  the  call  to  supper.  A  stupor  weighed 
down  all  his  faculties,  and  he  almost  seemed  to  sleep  ;  but  a 
slight  tap  at  the  entrance  —  a  single  tap;  gentle  as  if  made  by 
a  woman-hand  soliciting  admission  —  awakened  in  an  instant 
all  the  guilty  consciousness  that  could  not  sleep  in  the  bosom  of 
the  criminal.  He  started  to  his  feet  in  terror.  The  keen 
and  searching  glance  of  his  wife  was  fixed  upon  his  face,  and 
heedful  of  every  movement  of  his  person.  She  said  nothing  ; 
but  her  looks  w^cre  so  full  of  inquiry,  that  it  needed  no  words 
to  make  Pickett  aware  that  her  soul  was  alarmed  and  appre- 


RICHARD   IIURDIS. 

liensivc.     She  looked  as  if  feeling  that  all  her  previous  fears  were 
realized.     The  knock  at  the  entrance  was  repeated. 

"  Shall  I  open  it,  Ben  ?  "  was  her  question,  and  her  eyes  motioned 
him  to  a  window  in  the  rear.  But  he  did  not  heed  the  obvious  sug 
gestion.  Gathering  courage  as  he  beheld  her  glance,  and  saw  her 
suspicions,  he  crossed  the  floor  to  the  entrance,  boldly  lifting  in<3 
bar  which  secured  it,  and  in  firm  tones  bade  the  unknown  visitor 
"  Come  in." 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

THE    MYSTIC    KKOTIIKKHOOn. 

•  Ou"*  coming 

Is  not  for  snlutativu— -wi  have  business." —  Cat  Hint. 

THE  stranger  boldly  stepped  into  the  light  ns  the  dooi  \vai 
opened  for  him.  The  heart  of  Pickett  sank  within  him  on  the 
instant,  for  guilt  is  a  thing  of  continual  terrors ;  but  his  glance 
was  fixed  on  the  person  without  recognition,  and  there  was 
nothing  in  the  air  or  visage  of  the  intruder  to  excite  alarm. 
I] is  dark,  swarthy  features  and  sinister  eye  were,  it  is  true,  suf 
ficiently  unprepossessing ;  but  these  were  evidently  the  habitual 
features  of  the  nan,  and,  being  in  repose,  gave  no  occult  ex 
pression  to  his  countenance.  His  guise  was  common  enough, 
consisting  of  the  common  blue-and-white  homespun  of  the  coun 
try,  and  this  bespattered  with  mud  as  if  he  had  been  loii£  a 
traveller,  lie  demanded  traveller's  fare,  and  begged  to  be 
accommodated  for  the  night.  There  was  no  denial  of  so  small 
a  boon,  even  in  the  humblest  cottage  of  Alabama;  and  though 
Pickett  would  rather  have  had  no  company,  he  could  not  yet 
refuse. 

"  Well,"  said  Pickett,  "  we  are  not  in  the  habit  of  taking  in 
travellers  ;  but  if  you  can  make  out  with  a  blanket  by  the  chim 
ney,  you  can  have  it  —  it's  all  I  can  give  you." 

"  Good  enough,"  3al<l  the  stranger  "  I'm  not  particular 
Room  by  the  chir^ney,  uid  light  voou  enough  for  a  blaze,  ana 
I'm  satisfied." 

"Have  you  had  supper?"  demanded  Mr*.  P  okett ;  "  *ve  car- 
give  you  some  hoe-cake  and  bacon." 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am,  but  I  took  a  bite  from  my  bag  about  ar 
hour  ago,  as  I  crossed  a  branch  coming  on,  which  baited  my 
hang«n.  I  won't  trouble  vou  to  £.-\*  anything  moro." 


214  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

'  You're  from  below  ? "  asked  Pickctt,  with  some  show  of  curi 
osity. 

"  No —  from  above." 

"  Do  you  go  much  farther  ? " 

''  I  think  not  ;  I've  got  business  in  these  parts,  and  shall  return 
when  it's  over." 

"  You've  a  horse  to  see  to  ?  " 

"  No,  I  foot  it.  —  I'm  a  very  poor  man." 

The  lie  was  uttered  with  habitual  readiness.  The  emissary 
hal  hidden  and  hoppled  his  horse  in  the  neighboring  woods, 
lie  was  too  well  practiced  in  his  art  to  forego  every  precaution. 
Pickctt  had  no  other  questions,  and  but  little  more  was  said  for 
the  time  by  either  of  the  parties,  all  of  whom  seemed  equally 
taciturn.  The  wife  of  Pickett  alone  continued  anxious.  The 
searching  glance  of  the  stranger  did  not  please  her,  though  it 
appeared  to  have  its  impulse  in  curiosity  alone.  Perhaps,  sus 
pecting  her  husband's  guilt,  all  circumstances  removed  from 
those  of  ordinary  occurrence  provoked  her  apprehensions.  With 
a  just  presentiment,  she  had  trembled  on  the  stranger's  knock 
and  entrance,  and  every  added  moment  of  his  stay  increased 
her  fears.  She  had  ;.s  yet  had  no  conference  with  Pickett, 
touching  the  business  which  carried  him  abroad  ;  and  the  presence 
of  their  guest  denied  her  all  opportunity  for  the  satisfaction 
of  her  doubts.  Her  evident  disquiet  did  not  escape  the  notice 
of  her  husband,  but  he  ascribed  it  in  his  own  mind  to  her 
desire  to  go  to  bed,  which,  as  they  all  slept  in  the  same  apart 
ment,  was  rendered  somewhat  difficult  by  the  presence  of  the 
new-comer.  His  coarse  mind,  however,  soon  made  this  difficulty 
light. 

"  Go  to  bed,  Betsy — don't  mind  us  ;  or,  to  make  the  matter  easy, 
what  say  you,  stranger,  to  a  bit  of  a  walk  — the  night's  clear,  and  not 
cold  neither  ?  We'll  just  step  out  till  the  old  woman  lies  down,  if 
you  please." 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  the  other  ;  "  I  was  about  to  propose  the  same 
thing  to  you." 

The  fears  of  Pickctt  were  newly  roused  by  this  seemingly  innocent 
declaration  of  the  stranger  —  a  declaration  which,  at  another  time, 
would  not  have  tasked  a  thought. 

"  Why  should  he  wish  to  take  me  out  to  walk  with  him  at 


THE   MYSTIC    BROTHERHOOD.  21o 

night  —  "why  should  he  propose  such  a  thing?"  was  his  inward 
inquiry  ;  and  with  hesitating  steps  he  conducted  the  suspicious  guest 
from  the  hovel  into  the  open  ground  before  it. 

"I  was  just  going  to  propose  the  same  thing  to  you,"  said  the 
stranger  the  moment  they  had  got  there,  "  for,  do  you  see,  it  isn't  to 
lodge  with  you  only  that  I  come.  I  have  business  with  you,  my 
friend  —  business  of  great  importance." 

If   Pickett  was  alarmed  before,  he  was  utterly  confounded  now. 

"Business  with  me-!"  l.e  cried,  in  undisguised  astonishment; 
"what  business — what  business  can  you  have  with  me  ?  "  and  he 
stopped  full  and  confronted  the  stranger  as  he  spoke. 

"  Well,  that's  what  I'm  going  to  tell  you  now,  but  not  here;  walk 
farther  from  the  house,  if  you  please  —  let's  go  into  this 
thicket." 

"Into  the  thicket!  No,  I'm  d 1  if  I  do!"  cried  the  now 

thoroughly-alarmed  Pickett.  "  I'll  go  into  the  thicket  with  no 
stranger  that  I  don't  know.  I  don't  see  what  business  you  can  have 
with  meat  all  ;  and  if  you  have  any,  you  can  just  as  well  out  with  it 
here  as  anywhere  else." 

"  Oh,  that's  just,  as  you  please,"  said  the  other  coolly  ;  "  it  was  for 
your  sake  only  that  I  proposed  to  go  into  the  thicket,  for  the  business 
is  not  exacily  proper  for  everybody  to  hear  ;  and  there's  no  use  in 
calling  the  high-road  to  counsel." 

"For  my  sake  ?  What  the  d — 1  do  you  mean,  my  friend  ?  It's 
your  business,  not  mine  :  why  is  it  for  my  sake  that  you  would  have 
me  go  into  the  thicket  '!  " 

"Because  it  might  bring  you  into  trouble,  if  any  ears  besides  our 
own  were  to  hear  me,"  replied  the  stranger  with  indifference.  "  For 
my  part,  I  don't  care  much  where  it  is  said,  only  to  save  you  from 
any  trouble. " 

"Me  from  trouble  —  me  from  trouble!  I  don't  know  what 
3Tou  can  mean  ;  but  if  you're  serious,  where  would  you  have  me 
go?' 

"There  —  that  thicket  will  do.  It  looks  dark  enough  for  our 
business." 

The  stranger  pointed  to  a  dense  grove  in  the  neighborhood, 
but  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road  —  a  part  of  the  same  forest 
in  which  the  reader  will  remember  to  have  witnessed  an  inter- 


216  RICHARD   1IURDIS. 

view  between  John  Hurdis  and  Jane,  the  idiot  girl.  Not  knowing 
what  to  fear,  yet  fearing  everything,  the  murderer  followed  the  stran 
ger,  whom  he  now  regarded  as  his  evil  genius.  The  other  was  passing 
more  deeply  into  the  woods,  after  having  entered  them,  than  Pickett 
seemed  to  think  necessary  for  his  object,  and  the  voice  of  the  latter 
arrested  him. 

"Dark  enough  for  your  business,  it  may  be,  but  quite  too 
dark  for  mine.  I'll  go  no  further.  You  can  say  here  all  you've 
got  to  say,  no  matter  what  it  is.  I'm  not  afraid,  and  I  think  it 
something  strange  that  you  should  want  me  to  go  into  the  bush 
in  a  dark  night  with  a  person  I  don't  know.  I  don't  somehow 
like  it  altogether.  I'm  not  sure  that  it's  safe.  I  mean  no  harm, 
but  it's  not  the  best  sense  in  the  world  to  trust  people  one  don't 
know." 

"  Lord  love  you,"  said  the  other,  with  a  quiet  tone  of  contempt, 
"you're  more  scarry  than  I  thought  you.  There's  nothing  to  be 
frightened  at  in  me;  my  business  is  peaceable,  and  I'm  a  peaceable 
man.  I  don't  carry  a  rifle,  and  I  never  tumbled  a  fellow  from  his 
horse  at  a  hundred  yards,  in  all  my  life,  so  far  as  I  can  recollect 
now." 

These  words  were  uttered  with  the  utmost  coolness,  and  as  if 
they  were  entirely  without  peculiar  signification.  The  effect 
upon  the  hearer  was  almost  paralyzing,  as  it  was  instantaneous. 
He  started,  as  if  he  had  been  himself  shot — for  a  moment  was 
silent,  under  the  obvious  imputation  contained  in  the  last  sen 
tence  of  his  companion's  speech  —  then  recovering  himself,  with 
the  blustering  manner  of  a  bully,  he  addressed  the  other,  who 
saw,  in  the  dim  light  which  surrounded  them,  that  Pickett's 
hand  was  thrust  into  the  bosom  of  his  vest,  as  if  in  search  of  some  con 
cealed  weapon. 

"  How  !  you  do  not  mean  to  say  that  I  ever  did  such  a  thing  ?  If 
you  do — " 

"  Put  up  your  knife,  brother,  and  keep  your  hand  and  voice  down. 
Lift  either  too  high,  and  I  have  that  about  me  which  would  drive  you 
into  the  middle  of  next  summer,  if  you  only  looked  at  me  to 
strike." 

Such  was  the  stern  reply  of  the  stranger,  whose  tones  changed 
promptly  with  the  circumstances.  Pickett  felt  himself  in  the 
presence  of  a  master.  He  was  cowed.  He  released  his  hold 


THE   MYSTIC    BROTHERHOOD.  217 

upon  the  weapon,  which  he  had  grasped  in  his  bosom,  and  lowering 
the  sounds  of  his  voice  in  obedience  to  the  stranger's  requisition,  he 
replied  in  more  conciliatory  language. 

"  What  mean  you,  my  friend  ?  What  is  the  business  that  brings 
you  here  ?  What  would  you  have  with  me,  and  why  do  you 
threaten  me  ?  " 

' '  Your  hand  ! "  said  the  other  deliberately,  while  extending  his 
own. 

"There  it  is;  and  now,  what  ?"_  Pickett  reluctantly  com 
plied. 

"  Only  that  you  are  one  of  us  now  —  that's  all." 

' '  One  of  us  —  how  !  who  are  you  ?  —  what  mean  you  ?  " 

"Everything.  You  are  a  made  man  —  your  fortunes  are  made. 
You've  become  one  of  a  family  that  can  do  everything  for  you,  and 
will  do  it,  if  you'll  let  them." 

The  silence  of  Pickett  expressed  more  wonder  than  his  words 
could  have  done.  The  oilier  went  on  without  heeding  a  feeble 
attempt  which  he  made  at  reply. 

"  You've  volunteered  to  c'o  some  of  our  business,  and  have,  there 
fore,  joined  our  fraternity." 

"Your  business!  what  business — what  fraternity?  I  don't 
know,  my  friend,  what  you  possibly  can  mean." 

"I'll  tell  you,  then,  and  put  you  out  of  suspense.  You're  just 
from  Tuscaloosa,  where  you've  taken  some  trouble  off  our  hands. 
I've  come  to  thank  you  for  it,  and  to  do  you  some  kindness  in  return. 
One  good  turn  deserves  another,  you  know,  and  this  that  you  have 
done  for  us,  deserves  a  dozen." 

The  wonder  of  Pickett  was  increased.  He  almost  gasped  in 
uttering  another  request  to  hear  all  that  the  other  had  to  say. 

"Why,  it's  soon  said,"  he  replied.  "You  shot  a  lad  two  days 
ago,  near  the  '  shade,'  up  beyond  Tuscaloosa  — 

"Who  says — who  saw  —  it  is  a  lie  —  a  d — d  lie!"  cried  the 
criminal,  in  husky  and  feeble  accents,  while  quivering  at  the  same 
time  with  mingled  rage  and  fear. 

"Oh,  pshaw  !"  said  the  other,  "what's  the  use  of  beating  about 
the  bush.  I  saw  you  tumble  the  lad  myself,  and  I've  followed  upon 
your  trail  ever  since  — 

"But  you  shall   follow  me  no  more!     One   of    us  must 

10 


218  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

way  to  the  other!"  cried  the  criminal  in  screaming  accents,  and 
while  drawing  his  knife  with  one  hand,  he  aimed  to  grasp  the  throat 
of  the  stranger  with  the  other.  But  the  latter  was  too  wily  a  scout 
to  become  an  easy  victim.  He  had  watched  his  man,  even  as  the  cat 
watches  the  destined  prey  —  to  whom  she  suffers  a  seeming 
freedom  and  sacrifices  at  the  very  moment  of  its  greatest  appar 
ent  security.  With  the  movement  of  Pickett  to  strike,  was  that  of 
the  stranger  to  defend  himself  —  nor  to  defend  himself  only. 
The  strength  of  the  former  was  far  inferior  to  that  of  the  man  whom 
lie  availed,  and  instead  of  taking  him  by  the  throat,  he  found 
his  grasp  eluded,  and,  at  the  same  moment,  the  arm  which  held  the 
weapon,  was  secured  in  a  grip  which  effectually  baffled  all  his  efforts 
at  release. 

"Don't. be  rash!"  said  the  stranger,  with  a  laugh  in  which 
there  was  no  sign  of  anger.  "Don't  be  rash  —  it's  of  no  use! 
You're  only  fighting  against  your  own  good,  and  your  powder's 
wasted  on  me.  I'm  too  much  for  you,  and  that's  enough  to 
make  you  quiet.  But  there's  another  and  a  better  reason  than 
that  to  keep  you  quiet.  I'm  yor.r  friend,  I  tell  you  — your  best  friend 
—  and  I  can  bring  you  many  friends.  I'm  come  all  this  distance  to 
befriend  you;  and,  if  you'll  have  patience  and  be  civil,  you'll  soon  see 
how." 

"Let  go  my  arm!"  said  Pickett,  chafing  furiously,  but  still 
ineffectually,  as  far  as  his  own  efforts  to  release  himself  were  con 
cerned. 

"Well,  I'll  do  that,"  said  the  stranger,  releasing  him  at  the  same 
instant;  "  but.  mind  me,  if  you  try  to  use  it  again,  as  you  did  just 
cow,  it  will  be  worse  for  you  !  I  never  suffer  a  dog  to  worry  me 
twice.  I'm  sure  to  draw  his  teeth,  so  that  he  will  bite  no  other;  and, 
if  you  lift  that  knife  at  me  again,  I'll  put  a  plug  into  your  bosom  that 
will  go  quite  as  deep,  if  not  deeper,  than  your  bullet  did  in  the  bosom 
of  that  young  fellow  ! " 

"You  know  not  what  you  say  —  you  saw  not  that  !  "  was  the  faint 
answer  of  Pickett. 

"  It's  a  true  bill,  man,  and  I'll  swear  to  it  !  How  should  I  know  it, 
if  I  did  not  sec  it  ?  I  saw  the  lad  tumble  —  saw  you  scud  from  the 
place,  rifle  in  hand,  and  take  to  your  creature,  which  was  fastened  to 
a  dwarf  poplar,  in  a  little  wood  of  poplars,  What  say  you  to  that  ? 
Js  it  not  true  ? 


THE   MYSTIC   BEOTHEKHfX)D.  219 

Pickett  leaned  against  a  tree,  silent  and  exhausted.  He  had 
no  answer.  The__fates  Lad  tracked  him  to  his  den. 

"Xay!  fear  nothing,  though  I  know  your  secret,"  said  the 
other,  approaching  him.  "You  are  in  no  sort  of  danger  —  not 
from  me,  at  least;  on  the  contrary,  you  have  done  our  friends 
a  service  —  have  saved  them  from  the  trouble  of  doing  the  very 
thing  that  we  would  have  had  to  do  for  ourselves.  Three  of  us 
pursu'-d  the  man  that  you  shot  .  and,  if  he  had  got  away,  which 
he  must  have  done,  but  for  your  bullet,  it  would  have  been  an 
ugly  and  losing  matter  for  us.  You  did  us  good  service  then, 
I  tell  you  —  you  volunteered  to  be  one  of  our  *fn'&r*,  and  we 
have  got  the  frame.  The  search  of  the  body  gave  us  a  rich 
booty,  and  his  death  a  degree  of  safety,  which  we  might  not 
el.se  have  enjoyed." 

'•Well;  wa=n't  that  enough  for  you?  Why  did  you  come 
after  me?"  demanded  Pickett.  bitterly.  "Why  follow  me  with 
you  infernal  secret  ':  " 

"  Lord  love  you!  to  give  you  your  share  of  the  spoil,  to  be 
sure  — what  else?  Do  you  think  us  so  mean  as  to  keep  all 
for  ourselves,  and  give  none  to  a  man  who  did.  I  may  say,  the 
dirtiest  jtart  of  the  business?  Oh.  no.  brother!  no;  I've  brought 
you  your  share  of  the  booty.  Here  it  i^.  You  will  see  when 
you  come  to  look  at  it.  that  we  are  <juite  a^  liV-ral  as  we 
should  l>e.  You  have,  here,  a  larger  amount,  than  i>  usually 
given  to  a  (striker."  And,  as  the  stranger  s]>oke  thr^e  words, 
he  pulled  out  something  from  his  pocket,  which  he  presented  to 
his  astonished  auditor.  Pickett  thrust  away  the  extended  hand, 
as  he  replied:  — 

"I  want  none  of  it!  I  will  have  no  ^barc —  I  am  not  one 
of  you! " 

"But  that's  all  nonsense,  my  brother.  You  must  take  it. 
You  must  be  one  of  us.  When  a  *trik<r  refuses  his  share,  we 
suspect  that  something's  going  wrong,  and  be  takes  his  share, 
or  he  pays  for  it,  by  our  law,"  was  the  reply  of  the  stranger, 
who  continued  to  press  the  money  upon  him. 

"Your  laws!  —  of  what  laws  —  of  whom  do  you  speak?" 

"Of  our  fraternity,  to  be  sure!  —  of  the  Mystic  Brotherhood, 
rerhaps,  you  have  never  heard  of  the  Myslic  Brotherhood?" 

"2s  ever." 


220  ItlCIIARD   1IU11DIS. 

"You  arc  unfortunate  to  have  lived  long  enough  to  be  wise. 
Let    me  enlighten    you.     The  Mystic    Brotherhood  consists  of    a 
parcel  of  bold  fellows,   who  don't  like  the  laws  of  the  state  ex 
actly,    and    of   other    societies,    and   who    have   accordingly  asso 
ciated  together,  for  the  purpose  of  making  their 'own,  and  doing 
business  under    them.     As  we  have  no   money  of  our  own,    and 
as  we  must  have  money,  we  make  it  legal  to  take  it  from  other 
people.     When  they  will    not  shut  their  eyes    and    suffer   us    to 
take  it  without  trouble,   we  shut  them  up  ourselves  ;  a    task  for 
the  proper  doing  of  which  we  ha,ve  a  thousand   different  modes. 
One  of  these,  the  task  of  a  striker,  you  employed  in  our  behalf, 
and  very  effectually  shut    up    for   us,   the  eyes    of    that    foolish 
young  fellow,  who  had  already  given  us  sonic  trouble,  and,  but 
for  you,   might  have  given  us  a  great  deal  more.     Having  done 
so  well,  we  resolved  to  do  you  honor  —  to  make  you  one  of  us, 
and  give  you  all  the  benefits  of  our  institution,  as  they  are  en 
joyed    by  every  other    member.     We   have  our  brethren    in    all 
the  states,   from  Virginia  to  Louisiana,  and  beyond  into  the  ter 
ritories.     Some  of  our  friends  keep  agencies  for  us,  even  so  far 
as  the  Sabine,  and  we  send  negroes  to  them  daily." 
"Negroes!  what  negroes  —  have  you  negroes?" 
"Yes!    when    we    take    them.     We    get    the    negroes    to    run 
away  from  their  owners,   then  sell  them  to  others,   get  them  to 
run  away  again,    and,   in    this  way,   we  probably  sell  the    same 
negro  half  a  dozen  times.     This  is  one  branch  of  our  business, 
and  might  suit  you.     When  the  affair  gets  too  tangled,   and  we 
apprehend  detection,  we  tumble  the  negro  into  a  river,  and  thus 
rid  ourselves  of  a  possession  that  has  paid  good  interest  already, 
and  which  it  might  not  be  any  longer  safe  to  keep." 
"What!  you   kill   the   negro." 
"Yes:  you  may  say  so.     We  dispose  of  him." 
"And  how  many  persons  have  you  in  the  brotherhood?" 
"Well,  I  reckon  we  stretch  very  nigh  on  to  fifteen  hundred?" 
"Fifteen  hundred!  is  it  possible!  —  so  many?" 
"Yes;  and  we  are  increasing  daily.     "Let  me   give  you    the 
first  sign,   brother  —  the  sign  of  a  striker." 

"No!"  cried  Pickett,  shrinking  back.  "I  will  not  join  you! 
I  do  not  know  the  truth  of  what  you  say!  I  never  heard  the 
like  before!  I  will  have  nothing  to  do  in  this  business! " 


THE    MYSTIC    BROTHERHOOD.  221 

"  You  must!  "  was  the  cool  re  joinder — "  you  must!  Nobody  shall 
strike  for  us,  without  becoming  one  of  us." 

"And  suppose  I  refuse?  "  said  Pickett. 

"  Then  I  denounce  you  as  a  murderer,  to  the  grand  jury,"  was 
the  cool  reply.  "  I  will  prove  you  to  have  murdered  this  youth,  and 
bring  halt'  a  dozen  beside  myself  to  prove  it." 

"What,  if  I  tell  all  that  you  have  told  me,  of  your  brother 
hood?" 

"  Pshaw!  brother,  you  are  dreaming.  What,  if  you  do  tell;  who 
will  you  get  to  believe  you  —  where's  your  proofs?  But  I  will  prove 
all  that  I  charge  you  with,  by  a  dozen  witnesses.  Even  if  it  were  not 
true,  yet  could  I  prove  it  " 

The  discomfited  murderer  perspired  in  his  agony.  The  net  was 
completely  drawn  around  him. 

"  Don't  be  foolish,  brother,"  said  the  emissary  of  a  fraternity, 
upon  the  borders  of  the  new  states,  the  history  of  which,  al 
ready  in  part  given  to  the  public,  is  a  dreadful  chronicle  of 
desperate  crime,  and  insolent  incendiarism.  "  Don't  be  fool 
ish  !  you  can't  help  yourself  —  you  must  be  one  of  us,  whether 
you  will  or  not  !  We  can't  do  without  you  —  we  have  bought 
you  out!  If  you  take  our  business  from  us;  you  must  join  part 
nership,  or  we  must  shut  up  your  shop!  We  can't  have  any 
opposition  going  on.  The  thing's  impossible  —  insufferable! 
Here  —  take  your  share  of  the  money.  It  will  help  you  to  be 
lieve  in  us,  and  that's  a  great  step  toward  making  you  comply 
with  my  demand.  Nay!  don't  hold  back,  I  tell  you,  brother, 
you  must  go  with  us,  now,  body  and  soul,  or  you  hang,  by  the 
Eternal!  " 

Base  and  wretched  as  was  the  miserable  Pickett,  in  morals 
and  in  condition,  In.1  was  not  yet  so  utterly  abandoned  as  to  feel 
easy,  under  the  necessity  so  imperatively  presented  to  him 
The  character  or  his  wife,  uoble  amid  poverty  and  all  its  conse 
quent  forms  of  wretchedness,  if  it  had  not  lifted  his  own  stand 
ards  of  feeling  and  of  thought  beyond  his  oun  nature,  had  the 
effect,  at  least,  of  making  him  conceal,  as  much  as  he  could,  his 
deficiencies  from  her.  litre  was  something  more  to  conceal, 
and  this  necessity  was,  of  its:lf,  a  pang  to  one,  having  but  the 
one  pcrsone  to  conlide  in  and  feeling  so  great  a  dependence 
upon-  that  one.  TSiis  step  estranged  him  still  further  from  her, 
and  while  he  passionately  took  the  proltered  money,  and  looked  upon. 


222  EICIIAllI)    HINDIS. 

the  uncouth  and  mystic  sign  whirh  the  other  made  before  him,  in 
conferring  his  first  degree  of  membership,  the  cold  sweat  stood  upon 
his  face  in  heavy  drops,  and  an  icy  weight  seemed  contracting  about 
his  heart.  He  felt  as  if  had  bound  himself,  hand  and  foot,  and  was 
about  to  be  delivered  over  to  the  executioner. 


MORE   SNARES.  223 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

MORE    SXARES. 

—  "  Wo  should  know  each  other: 
As  to  my  character  for  what  men  call  crime, 
Seeing  I  please  my  senses  as  I  list, 
And  vindicate  that  right  with  force  or  guile, 
It  is  a  public  matter,  and  I  care  not 
If  I  discuss  it  with  you."— The  Ccnci. 

THE  emissary  of  the  Mystic  Brotherhood,  which  had  just  con- 
v'erred  the  honors  of  its  membership  on  one  who  so  richly  de 
served  them,  though  pursuing  his  labors  with  the  rigid  direct 
ness  of  «in  ordinary  business  habit,  and  confining  himself  thereto 
with  a  degree  of  strictness  and  method  not  common  to  the  wicked, 
was  yet  by  no  means  a  niggard  in  his  communications.  lie 
unfolded  much  of  the  history  of  that  dangerous  confederacy, 
which  it  is  not  thought  necessary  to  deliver  here  ;  and  his  hearer 
became  gradually  and  fully  informed  of  the  extent  of  its  re 
sources  and  ramifications.  Yet  these  gave  him  but  little  satis 
faction.  He  found  himself  one  of  a  clan  numbering  many  hun 
dred  persons,  having  the  means  of  procuring  wealth,  which  had 
been  limited  to  him  heretofore  simply  because  of  his  singleness, 
and  not  because  of  any  better  principle  which  he  possessed  ; 
and  yet  he  shuddered  to  find  himself  in  such  a  connection.  The 
very  extensiveness  of  the  association  confounded  his  judgment, 
and  filled  him  with  terrors.  lie  was  one  of  those  petty  villains 
who  rely  upon  cunning  and  trick,  rather  than  audacity  and 
strength,  to  prosecute  their  purposes ;  and  while  the  greater 
number  of  the  clan  found  their  chief  security  in  a  unity  of  pur 
pose  and  a  concentration  of  numbers,  which  in  the  end  enabled 
them  for  a  season  to  defy  and  almost  overthrow"  the  laws  of 
society,  he  regarded  this  very  circumstance  as  that  which,  above 


224  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

all  others,  must  greatly  contribute  to  the  risk  and  dangers  of 
detection.  The  glowing  accounts  of  his  companions,  which  de 
scribed  their  successes  —  their  profitable  murders,  fearless  burglaries, 
and  a  thousand  minor  offences,  such  as  negro,  horse  stealing  and 
petty  thefts  —  only  served  to  enlarge  the  vision  with  which  he  beheld 
his  fears;  and,  dull  and  wretched,  he  returned  with  his  guest  to  the 
miserable  hovel,  now  become  doubly  so  since  his  most  humiliating 
enlightenment,  and  the  formation  of  his  new  ties.  His  wife  and 
daughter,  meanwhile,  had  retired  for  the  night ;  but  the  woman  did 
not  sleep.  She  was  filled  with  apprehensions  for  husband  scarcely  less 
imposing  than  those  which  troubled  him  for  himself  ;  yet  little  did  she 
dream  how  completely  he  was  in  the  thrall  of  that  power  from  which 
her  own  severe  and  fruitless  virtues  had  been  utterly  unable  at  all 
times  to  restrain  him.  Her  wildest  fears  never  imagined  a  bond 
so  terrible  as  that  which  had  been  imposed  upon  him  in  the  last 
half-hour. 

"Whenever  you  want  to  lie  down,  stranger,  you  can  do  so. 
There's  your  blanket.  I'm  sorry  there's  no  better  for  you."  It  was 
with  difficulty  that  Pickett  brought  himself  to  utter  these  common 
words  of  courtes3r. 

"Good  enough,"  said  the  other  —  "I'll  take  it  a  little  closer  by 
the  fire  ;  and,  if  you  have  no  objection,  I'll  throw  a  stick  or  two  on. 
I've  slept  in  a  better  bed,  it's  true,  but  I'll  be  satisfied  if  I  never 
sleep  in  a  worse. 

The  hesitating  utterance  of  her  husband,  and  the  cool  and 
ready  reply  of  their  guest,  did  not  escape  the  keen  hearing  of 
the  woman.  Pickett  muttered  something  in  answer  to  this 
speech,  and  then  threw  himself,  without  undressing,  upon  the 
bed.  The  other  followed  the  example,  and  in  a  few  moments 
his  form,  stretched  at  length  before  the  fireplace,  lay  as  quietly 
as  if  he  were  already  wrapped  in  the  deepest  slumbers.  This 
appearance  was,  however,  deceptive.  The  emissary  had  not 
yet  fulfilled  all  his  duties ;  and  he  studiously  maintained  him 
self  in  watchfulness,  the  better  to  effect  his  objects.  Believing 
him  "to  be  a  sleep,  however,  the  anxieties  of  Pickctt's  wife 
prompted  her,  after  a  while,  to  speak  to  her  miserable  husband, 
with  whom,  as  yet,  she  had  had  no  opportunity  of  private 
speech  ;  but  her  whispered  accents  were  checked  by  the  appre 
hensive  criminal  on  the  first  instant  of  their  utterance.  With 


MORE   SNAKES.  225 

quick  and  nervous  gripe  he  grasped  her  arm  in  silence,  and, 
in  this  manner,  without  a  word,  put  a  stop  to  her  inquiries.  In 
silence,  thus,  and  yet  with  equal  watchfulness,  rtid  the  three 
remain,  for  the  space  of  two  goodly  hours.  The  night  was  ad 
vancing,  and  Pickett  began  to  hope  that  John  Hurdis  would 
fail  to  keep  his  promise  ;  but  the  hope  had  not  been  well  formed 
in  his  mind,  before  he  heard  the  signal  agreed  upon  between 
them  —  three  hoots  and  a  bark  —  and,  in  a  cold  agony  that 
found  in  every  movement  a  pitfall,  and  an  enemy  in  every  bush, 
he  prepared  to  rise  and  go  forth  to  his  employer. 

"  Where  would  you  go  ?"  demanded  the  woman  in  a  hurried 
whisper,  which  would  not  be  repressed,  and  she  grasped  his 
arm  as  she  spoke.  She,  too,  had  heard  the  signal,  and  readily 
divined  its  import  when  she  saw  her  husband  preparing  to 
leave  her. 

"Nowhere  —  what's  the  matter?  —  lie  still,  ai  <1  don't  be  fool 
ish  !"  was  his  reply,  uttered  also  in  a  whisper,  v>  hile  with  some 
violence  he  disengaged  his  arm  from  her  gr;^j».  She  would 
have  still  detained  him. 

"Oh,  Ben  !"  was  all  she  said,  and  the  still, whispered  accents 
went  through  him  with  a  warning  emphasis  that  well  reminded 
him  of  that  good  counsel  which  he  had  before  rejected,  and 
which  he  bitterly  cursed  himself  for  not  having  followed. 

"She  was  right,"  he  muttered  to  his  own  heart  —  "she  was 
right :  had  I  listened  to  what  she  said,  and  let  John  Hurdis  do 
his  own  dirty  work,  I  would  have  had  no  such  trouble.  But 
it's  too  late  now  —  too  late  !  I  must  get  through  it  as  I  may." 

He  rose,  and,  silently  opening  the  door,  disappeared  in  the 
night.  He  had  scarcely  done  so,  when  the  emissary  prepared 
to  follow  him.  The  wife  saw  the  movement  with  terror,  and, 
coughing  aloud,  endeavored  in  this  way  to  convince  the  stranger 
that  she  was  wakeful  like  himself;  but  her  effort  to  discourage 
him  from  going  forth  proved  fruitless :  he  gave  her  no  heed, 
and  she  beheld  him,  with  fear  and  trembling,  depart  almost  in 
stantly  after  her  husband.  She  could  lie  in  bed  no  longer ;  but 
rising,  hurried  to  the  door,  which  she  again  opened,  and  gazed 
anxiously  out  upon  the  dim  and  speechless  trees  of  the  neigh 
boring  forests  with  eyes  that  seemed  to  penetrate  into  the  very 
dimmest  of  *,h<3ir  recesses.  She  looked  without  profit.  She 


/6  RICHARD  uunms. 

saw  nothing.  The  forms  of  both  lier  husband  and  his  guest  were 
nowhere  visible.  Should  she  pursue  them?  This  was  at  once  her 
thought,  but  she  dismissed  it  as  idle  a  moment  after.  Shivering 
with  cold,  and  under  the  nameless  terrors  in  her  apprehension,  she 
re-entered  the  hovel,  and  closed  the  entrance. 

"God  be  with  me,"  she  cried,  sinking  on  her  knees  beside' 
the  miserable  pallet  where  she  had  passed  so  many  sleepless 
nights;  "God  be  with  me,  and  with  him!  We  have  need  of 
thee,  O  God  —  both  of  us  have  need  of  thec.  Strengthen  me, 
O  God,  and  save  him  from  his  enemies !  The  hand  of  the 
tempter  is  upon  him  —  is  upon  him  even  now.  I  have  striven 
with  him,  and  I  plead  with  him  in  vain'.  Thou  only,  blessed 
Father — thou  only,  who  art  in  heaven,  and  art  all  merciful  on 
earth  —  thou  only  canst  save  him!  He  is  weak  and  yielding 
where  he  should  be  strong,  timid  when  he  should  be  bold,  and 
bold  only  where  it  is  virtue  to  be  fearful.  Strengthen  him  when 
he  is  weak,  and  let  him  be  weak  where  he  would  be  wicked. 
Cut  him  not  off  in  thy  wrath,  but  spare  him  to  me  —  to  this 
poor  child  — to  himself!  He  is  not  fit  to  perish  :  protect  him! 

He's What  is  this — who?  Is  it  you,  Jane?  Is  it  you,  my 

poor  child  ?  " 

The  idiot  girl  had  crawled  to  her  unseen,  during  her  brief 
but  energetic  apostrophe  to  the  Eternal,  and,  with  a  simpering, 
half-sobbing  accent,  testified  her  surprise  at  the  unwonted  ve 
hemence  and  seeming  unseasonablcness  of  her  mother's  prayers. 
With  increasing  energy  of  action,  the  woman  clasped  the  girl 
around  the  waist,  and  dragged  her  down  upon  the  floor  beside 
her. 

"Put  tip  your  hands,  Jane!"  was  her  exclamation;  "put  up 
your  hands  with  me  !  pray — pray  with  me.  Pray  to  God,  to 
deliver  us  from  evil  —  your  father  from  evil  —  from  his  own,  and 
the  evil  deeds  of  other  men  !  Speak  out,  child,  speak  fast,  and 
pray  — pray  !" 

"Our  Father  who  art  in  heaven"  —  The  child  went  on  with 
the  usual  adjuration  which  had  been  a  possession  of  mere  mem 
ory  from  her  infancy :  while  the  mother,  with  uplifted  hands, 
but  silent  thoughts,  concluded  her  own  heartfelt  invocation  to 
the  God  of  bounty  and  protection.  S!ie  felt  that  she  could  do 
no  more;  yet  much  rather  would  t=he  have  followed  her  husband 


MORE  SNARES.  227 

into  the  woods,  and  dragged  him  away  from  the  grasp  of  the 
tempter,  than  knelt  that  moment  in  prayer. 

Pickett  meanwhile,  little  dreaming  that  he  was  watched,  hur 
ried  to  the  place  assigned  for  meeting  John  Hurdis,  among  the 
willows.  The  emissary  followed  close  behind  him.  It  was  no 
part  of  his  plan  to  leave  the  former  ignorant  of  his  proper 
quality  ;  and  the  first  intelligence  which  he  had  of  his  approach 
was  the  sound  of  his  voice,  which  sank  into  the  heart  of  Pickett 
like  an  ice-bolt.  He  shivered  and  stopped  when  he  heard  it, 
as  if  by  an  instinct.  His  will  would  have  prompted  him  to  fly, 
and  leave  it  behind  for  ever,  but  his  feet  were  fastened  to  the 
earth.  "  What's  the  matter  ?  why  do  you  come  after  me  ?"  he 
asked. 

"I'll  go  along  with  you,  brother,"  said  the  stranger,  coolly  in 
reply. 

"  As  you  will,  but  why  ?  You  don't  think  I'm  running  off  from 
you,  do  you  ?  " 

"  No  !  —  that  you  can't  do,  brother,  even  if  you  would.  We  have 
eyes  all  around  us,  that  suffer  no  movement  by  any  of  us  to  be  made 
unseen  ;  and,  if  you  do  run,  such  are  our  laws,  that  I  should  have  to 
follow  you.  But  I  know  your  business,  and  wish  for  an  introduction 
to  your  friend." 

"My  friend!"  exclaimed  Pickett  in  profound  astonishment! 
"  what  friend  ?  —  I  know  of  no  friend." 

"Indeed!  but  you  must  surely  be  mistaken;  your  memory 
is  confused,  I  see.  The  friend  you're  going  to  meet  ;  is  he  not  your 
friend  ? " 

"  I'm  going  to  meet  no  friend  — 

"Surely  you  are!  Brother,  you  wouldn't  deceive  me,  would 
you  ?  Didn't  I  hear  the  owl's  hoot,  and  the  dog's  bark  V  I 
wasn't  asleep.  1  tell  you.  I  heard  the  signal  as  well  as  you." 

"  Owl's  hoot  and  dog's  bark  ?  why,  that's  no  signal  in  these 
parts,"  said  Pickett,  with  a  feeble  attempt  at  laughter  which  failed 
utterly;  "you  may  hear  owls  and  dogs  all  night,  if  you  listen  to 
them.  We  are  wiser  than  to  do  that." 

The  other  replied  in  graver  accents  than  usual :  — 

"I'm  afraid,  brother,  you  are  not  yet  convinced  of  the  powers 
of  the  Mystic  Brotherhood,  or  you  wouldn't  suppose  me  to  have 
been  neglectful  of  the  duties  they  sent  me  upon.  I  tell  you, 


228  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

they  gave  it  to  me  in  charge  to  follow  you,  and  to  find  out  who 
and  what  you  were;  to  learn  your  motives  for  killing  the  youth 
that  we  were  in  pursuit  of;  and  to  take  all  steps  for  making  so  good 
a  shot  and  ready  a  hand  one  of  our  own.  Do  you  think  I  lost  sight 
of  you  for  a  single  instant  from  that  time  to  this?  Be  sure  I  did  not. 
No!  —  I  saw  you  from  the  moment  you  took  your  nag  from  the 
stunted  poplar,  where  you  fastened  him.  I  marked  every  footstep 
you  have  taken  since.  When  you  stopped  at  that  plantation,  and 
told  your  friend  of  your  success  — 

''Great  God!  you  didn't  hear  what  we  said? " 

"  Every  syllable.  That  was  a  most  important  part  of  my  service: 
I  wouldn't  have  missed  a  word  or  look  of  that  conference." 

Pickett  turned  full  upon  the  inflexible  emissary,  and  gazed  upon 
him  with  eyes  of  unmixed  astonishment  and  terror.  When  he  spoke 
at  length,  it  was  in  accents  of  mingled  despair  and  curiosity:  — 

"  And  wherefore  was  this  important?  Of  what  use  will  it  be  to 
you  to  know  that  I  was  working  for  another  man  in  this 
business!" 

"It  helps  us  to  another  member  of  the  Mystic  Brotherhood,  my 
;  brother.  It  strengthens  our  arm;  it  increases  our  resources;  it  ripens 
our  strength,  and  hastens  our  plans.  He,  too,  must  be  one  of  us!  It 
is  for  this  I  seek  to  know  him." 

"But  there's  no  need  with  him,"  said  Pickett. 

' '  Plow  —  no  need  ?  " 

"  He's  rich;  he's  not  in  want  of  money,  as  we  are.  Why  should 
he  be  one  of  us?" 

"To  keep  what  he's  got,"  said  the  other  coolly. 

"But,  suppose  he  won't  join  you!" 

"We'll  hang  him,  then,  my  brother!  You  shall  prove  that  he 
was  the  murderer! " 

"  The  devil  you  say!  —  but  I'll  do  no  such  thing." 

"Then,  brother,  we  must  hang  you  both!  " 

The  eyes  of  Pickett  looked  the  terror  that  his  lips  could  not  speak; 
and,  without  further  words,  he  led  the  way  to  the  place  of  meet- 
i !•..<:.  urging  no  further  opposition  to  a  will  before  which  his  own 
quailed  in  subjection. 


DOMINO!  —  THE  GAME  BLOCKED. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

DOMINO! — THE   GAME   BLOCKED. 
"  Now  we  arc  alone,  sir ; 


And  them  hast  liberty  to  unload  the  burden 
Which  thou  groan'st  under."  —  MASSINGEK. 

THERE  is  no  fascination  in  the  snake,  true  or  fabled,  of  more 
tenacious  hold  upon  the  nature  of  the  victim,  than  was  that  of  the 
emissary  of  the  Mystic  Brotherhood  upon  the  miserable  creature 
Pickett.  A  wretch  born  in  degradation,  living  as  it  were  by  stealth, 
and  in  constant  dread  of  penal  atonement,  life  was  torture  enough  of 
itself,  when  it  came  coupled  with  the  constant  fear  of  justice.  J5ut 
when  to  this  danger  was  added  that  of  an  accountability  to  a  power 
no  less  arbitrary  than  the  laws,  and  wholly  illegitimate,  the  misery 
of  the  wretch  was  complete.  Hut  if  such  was  the  inllucnce  of  such 
a  condition  over  Picketl's  mind,  what  must  it  b(3  over  the  no  less 
dishonorable  and  far  more;  base  offender  who  employed  him  ? 
Though  a  murderer  —  a  cold-blooded,  calculating  murderer,  who 
could  skulk  behind  a  bush,  and  shoot  down  his  victim  from  a 
covert,  without  warning  made,  or  time  given  for  preparation  — 
lie  wa^  yet  hardy  enough,  if  he  had  the  sensibility  for  hate,  to 
avenge  his  wrong  by  his  own  hand,  and  not  by  tiiat  of  an 
agent. 

John  Hurdis  had  proved  himself  deficient  even  in  this  doubt 
ful  sort  of  courage.  He  could  smile,  and  be  the  villain  —  could 
desire  and  devise  the  murder  of  his  enemy  —  but  wanted  even 
the  poor  valor  of  the  murderer.  What  must  be  the  feeling,  the 
fear,  of  his  leprous  heart,  when  he  is  taught  his  true  condition 
—  when  he  finds  his  secret  known  —  when  he  feels  himself  in 
the  power  of  a  clan  having  a  thousand  tongues,  and  hourly  ex 
posing  themselves  to  a  thousand  risks  of  general  detection  ?  It 
would  have  been  a  sight  for  stud)',  to  behold  those  three  vil- 


^^0  RICHARD    IIURIiift. 

lains  gathered  together  in  that  no%cturi  al '  iiitei  \  iew  :  Hindi.-* 
his  soul  divided  between  triumpli  and  horror  —  eager  to  lean 
the  particulars  of  the  horrid  crime  which  his  agent  had  honit.ly 
executed,  vet  dreading  the  very  recital  to  which  he  gave  all 
ears  ;  J'ickett  —  burdened  with  the  consciousness  of  unpniiltah'.e 
guilt,  and  of  its  exposure  to  the  dogging  bloodl.'oui.  at  hi., 
heels;  and  he,  the  emissary,  like  a  keen  hunt'-r,  ha.^'.ii  -r  ''"••> 
the  Hanks  of  both,  pricking  them  forward  when  they  ialu  rc</, 
and  now  by  sarcasm,  and  now  by  threats,  quelling  their  sj;5ii!« 
and  commanding  all  their  secrets.  Secure  of  his  game,  In 
smiled  in  his  security  at  the  feeble  efforts  which  he  beheld  their, 
make,  and  the  futile  hopes  which  he  saw  they  entertained  of 
being  able  to  baffle  his  pursuit,  and  throw  out  his  unerring  nos 
tril  from  the  scent  which  he  had  so  fortunately  followed.  The 
struggle  was,  indeed,  no  less  pitiful  than  painful,  and  well  might 
ihe  utter  villain  smile  with  contempt  at  the  partial  character 
which  the  two  brought  to  bear  upon  their  designs  of  evil. 
Without  virtue,  and  radically  vicious,  they  were  alike  deficient 
in  that  bold  and  daring  insolence  which  can  defy  the  laws 
which  it  offends,  and  by  a  courage,  of  however  doubtful  merit 
at  least  elevate  its  offences  above  the  level  of  sneaking  and  in 
sidious  vice.  His  game  was  that  of  the  cunning  angler,  win 
knows  that  his  hook  is  keenly  fixed  in  the  jaws  of  his  prey, 
and  who  plays  with  his  hopes  only  to  make  his  fears  more 
oppressive,  and  his  compliance  the  more  unreserved  and  un 
qualified. 

Hurdis  was  awaiting  his  companion  in  the  place  appointed. 

"What  have  we  here? — who  is  this?"  he  exclaimed  in  sur 
prise,  as  he  beli eld  the  stranger  with  J  'ickett. 

"  It  is  a  friend,"  replied  the  latter,  with  a  subdued  and  dis 
couraging  voice. 

"A  friend!"  said  Hurdis.  "What  friend?  —  who?  —  we 
want  no  friend  ;  vhy  have  you  brought  him  ?" 

"You  mistake,"  said  the  stranger,  boldly.  "You  do  want  n 
friend,  though  you  may  not  think  so;  and  1  am  the  very  man 
for  yon.  But  go  aside  with  Pickett;  he'll  tell  you  all  about  it." 

Having  thus  spoken,  the  emissary  coolly  seated  himself  upon 
a  log.  and  John  Hurdis,  completely  confounded  by  his  impu 
dence,  turned,  as  he  w*»«  bidden,  foi  explanation  to  his  agent 


231 

They  went  aside1  together,  and  in  a  confused  and  awkward 
manner,  Pickett  went  through  the  bitter  narration,  which  it  al 
most  paralyzed  tlui  other  to  hear. 

"  Great  God  !  Ben  Pickctt,  what  nave  you  done  1  We  are 
mined  —  lost  for  ever!" 

The  cold  sweat  rolled  from  the  forehead  of  Unrdis,  and  his 
knees  trembled  beneath  him.  His  companion  tried  to  console 
him. 

"No;  there's  no  sort  of  danger.  Hear  his  story  of  his  busi 
ness,  and  we  know  much  more  against  him,  than  h-e  knows 
against  us." 

"  And  what  is  that  to  us  ?  What  is  it  to  me  that  I  can  prov* 
him  a  villain  or  a  murderer,  Ben  Pickctt  ?  Will  it  help  our  de 
fence  to  prove  another  as  worthy  of  punishment,  as  ourselves? 
Will  it  give  us  security  1" 

"  We  must  make  the  best  of  it  now.  It's  too  late  to  grieve 
about  it,"  said  the  other. 

"  Ay,  we  must  make  the  best  of  it,"  said  Ilurdis,  becoming 
suddenly  bold,  yet  speaking  in  tones  that  were  suppressed  to  a 
whisper — "ana  thore  is  but  one  way.  Hear  me,  Ben  Pickctt; 
does  this  fellow  come  alone  /" 

"  He  does." 

"Ha!  that  is  fortunate;  then  we  have  him.  His  companions 
are  —  where,  did  you  say?" 

"All  about  —  on  the  high  roads  —  everywhere—  from  Au 
gusta  to  Montgomery,  to  Mobile,  to  Tuscalocsa  —  from  the 
Muscle  Shoals  to  Jackson  —  from  Tuscaloosa  to  Chochuma. 
Everywhere,  according  to  his  account  of  it." 

"Which  is  probably  exaggerated.  They  may  be  every 
where,  but  they  certainly  are  not  here —  not  in  this  neighbor- 
nood." 

"  We  don't  know  that,  'squire.  God  !  there's  no  telling. 
To  think  that  the  fellow  should  track  me  so,  makes  me  afraid 
of  everything." 

"You  were  careless,  Pickett-   frightened,  perhaps — " 

"No,  I  wasn't.  I  was  just  as  cooi  as  I  wished  to  be,  and 
1  cleared  every  step  in  the  road  afore  I  jumped  it." 

*!  It  needs  not  to  talk  of  this.  We  must  be  more  careful  iii 
*uture.  We  must  match  his  cunning  with  greater  cunning,  ir 


232  RICHARD   HITEDI9. 

we  are  undone  for  ever.     We  are  in  his  power,  ar  J  who  K*.  * 
that  he  is  one  of  a  gang  such  as  you  descril  e  ?     Who  kn.:  HT 
that  he  is  not  an  officer  of  justice  —  one  who  suspects  us,  and  i1 
come  to  find  out  our  secrets  ?" 

"  No,  no,  'squire ;  how  should  he  be  able  to  tell  ms  all  tha 
he  did?  How  should  he  know  that  I  shot  Dick  Ilurdis  froi: 
the  hill  that  hangs  over  the  road  ?" 

"  You  remember  yoii  told  me  that  yourself,  Ben  Pickett ;  am 
you  sny  he  overheard  our  conversation  ?"  cried  Ilurdis,  eagerly 

"  Yes,  'squire ;  but  how  should  he  know  that  I  hid  my  nag  n 
a  thicket  of  poplars?  —  how  should  he  be  able  to  tell  me  the 
very  sort  of  stump  I  fastened  him  to  1" 

"  And  did  he  do  that,  Ben  ?" 

''That  he  did  —  every  bit  of  it.  No,  no,  'squire,  he  saw  all 
that  he  says  he  saw,  or  he  got  it  from  somebody  that  did  see 
it." 

"  Great  heavens  !  what  arc  we  to  do  ?"  exclaimed  Hurdis,  at 
he  folded  his  hands  together,  and  looked  with  eyes  of  supplies 
tion  upward.  But  his  answer  and  the  counsel  which  it  con 
eeyed,  came  from  an  entirely  opposite  region. 

"  Do  !  well  that's  the  question,"  replied  Pickett,  "  and  I  don't 
know  what  to  tell  you,  'squire." 

"  We  must  do  something — we  can  not  remain  thus  at  tli8 
mercy  of  this  fellow  !  The  thought  is  horrible!  The  rope  is 
round  our  necks,  Ben,  and  lie  has  the  end  in  his  hands!" 

"  It's  tco  true." 

"Hear  me  !"  said  Ilurdis  in  a  whisper,  and  drawing  his  com 
panion  still  farther  from  the  spot  where  the  emissary  had  been 
left  in  waiting  —  "there  is  but  one  way.  He  comes  alone. 
We  must  silence  him.  You  must  do  it,  Ben." 

"Do  what,  'squire?" 

"Do  what!"  exclaimed  the  other  impatiently,  though  still  in 
a  whisper.  "  Would  you  have  me  utter  every  word  ?  Do  with 
him  as  you  have  done  with  Dick  Hurdis !" 

"  I've  thought  of  that,  'squire,  but — " 

"  But  what  ?" 

"  There's  a  mighty  risk." 

"There's  risk  in  everything.  But  there's  no  risk  greater 
>l»»a  that  of  being  at  the  mercy  of  *»uch  a  bloodhound:" 


DOMINO! — TIIR  GAME  BLOCKED  23b 

"That's  tme  enough,  'squire;  but  he's  too  much  for  me  sin- 
£ie-handed.  You  ir.iut  help  inc." 

"  What's  the  need  ?  You  tlon't  think  to  do  it  now  ?:*  de 
manded  llurdis,  in  some  alarm. 

"If  it's  to  be  done  at  all,  why  not  now?  The  sooner,  the 
better,  'squire.  This  is  the  very  time.  lie  has  poked  his  nose 
into  our  pot,  and  he  can't  complain,  if  he  gets  it  scorched  To 
gether,  we  could  put  it  to  him,  so  that  there  could  be  no  mis 
take." 

But  this  counsel  did  not  suit  the  less  courageous  nature  of 
John  Hurdis. 

"  No,  Ben,  that  would  be  a  risk,  indeed.  We  might  tumble 
him,  but  a  chance  shot,  from  a  desperate  man,  might  also  tum 
ble  one  or  both  of  us." 

"  That's  true." 

"  We  must  think  of  something  else  —  some  safer  course,  whici 
will  be  equally  certain.  lie  sleeps  at  your  house." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  other  quickly  ;  "  but  I  will  do  nothing  of  that 
sort  within  smell  of  Betsy.  It's  bad  enough  to  draw  blood  on 
the  high  read,  but  it  must  not  run  on  one's  own  hearth." 

"  Pshaw  !  whore's  the  difference  ?  Murder  is  murder  wher 
ever  it  is  done  !" 

"That's  true,  'squire;  but  there's  a  feeling  in  it,  that  makes 
the  difference.  Besides,  I  won't  have  the  old  woman  worried 
»'ith  any  of  this  business.  I've  kept  everything  of  this  sort 
A'om  her  that  I  could  ;  and  the  thing  that  I  most  hated  ])ick 
Hurdis  for,  was  his  making  such  a  blaze  of  that  whipping  busi 
ness,  as  to  bring  it  to  her  sight.  There's  Jane,  too.  No, 
'squire,  my  wife  and  child  must  not  know  all  the  dirty  matters 
that  stick  to  my  fingers." 

"  Well,  as  you  please,  on  that  score.  But  something  must 
le  uone.  You  must  fix  a  trap  for  him.  When  does  he  leave 
yoci  V 

"  There's  no  knowing.  lie  wants  to  fix  you  as  he's  fixed  me  ; 
to  n.ake  us  both  members  of  his  clan  —  Mystic  Brotherhood  — 
as  he  calls  It ;  and  when  that's  done,  I  suppose,  he'll  be  off." 

"  But  why  should  he  desire  this  1     What  motive  can  he 
in  it?     Why  a  society  so  PT^^'TP  7" 

"There's  no  telling;  uuiy  you'u  Uuve  to  cor/sent" 


234-  RICHARD   IIURDIS. 

"  What !  to  this  accursed  brotherhood?    Never!  " 

"How  can  you  help  it,  'squire?  If  you  don't,  he'll  expose  you! 
He  swears  to  hang  you,  if  you  do  not! " 

"But  he  can  not!  How  can  he  prove  his  charge?  Besides,  I 
struck  no  blow  —  I  never  left  my  home !  " 

"You  forget,  'squire;  he  heard  our  talk  together." 

"But  who'll  believe  him,  Ben?  You  can  swear  him  down  that 
you  never  had  such  a  conversation." 

"No!  I  dare  not;  for  then  he'd  prove  me  to  be  the  man  that  shot 
the  shot,  We  must  submit,  'squire,  I'm  afraid,  or  he'd  convict  us 
both;  and,  to  save  myself,  I'd  swear  against  you!  I'd  have  to  do  it, 
'squire ! " 

This  declaration  completed  the  misery  of  Hurdis,  as  it  showed 
him  how  insecure  was  the  tenure  by  which  the  slaves  of  vice  are  held 
together.  The  bitterness  of  fear  —  the  very  worst  bitterness  of 
human  passion  —  was  in  his  heart,  in  all  its  force  and  fulness,  and  he 
had  to  drink  deeper  draughts  of  its  humiliating  waters  even  than 
this. 

"What!  Ben  Pickett,  can  it  be  that  you  would  give  evi 
dence  against  me,  after  all  I  have  done  for  you?  You  do  not  tell 
me  so? " 

"To  save  life  only,  'squire!  To  save  life  only  —  for  no  other 
necessity.  But  life  is  sweet,  'squire  —  too  sweet  for  us  to  stand  on 
any  friendship,  when  we  can  save  it  by  giving  everything  up 
beside.  It  wouldn't  be  at  the  first  jump,  neither,  'squire,  that  I 
would  let  out  the  secrets  of  an  old  friend.  It  is  only  when  I -see 
there's  no  other  hope  to  save  myself,  and,  then,  I  should  be  mighty 
sorry." 

"Sorry!"  exclaimed  Hurdis,  bitterly.  "Thus  it  is,"  he 
thought,  "to  use  base  instruments  for  unworthy  ends.  The 
slave  becomes  the  arbiter  —  the  master  —  and  to  silence  and 
to  subdue  our  fears,  we  add  to  our  secret  consciousness  of 
shame." 

In  anxiousness,  but  without  expression,  he  mused  thus  with  his 
own  thoughts. 

"  Well,  Ben,  since  it  can  be  no  better,"  he  spoke  to  his  companion 
"we  must  even  hold  together,  and  do  as  well  as  we  can  to  work 
ourselves  out  of  this  difficulty.  You  are  resolved  to  do  nothing  with 
the  fellow  at  your  own  house? " 


235 

Picketl  replied  in  words  and  a  tone,  which  made  his  negative  con 
clusive. 

"  We  must  see  his  hand,  then,  and  know  the  game  he  intends  to 
play,"  continued  Hurdis.  "  You  are  agreed  that  we  must  get  him  out 
of  the  way  for  our  own  safety.  To  say  when  and  how  is  all  the  dif 
ficulty.  Am  I  right  ?  " 

"That's  it,  'squire;  though,  somehow,  if  we  could  clinch  him 
now,  it  seems  to  me  it  would  be  better  than  leaving  it  over  for  another 
day." 

"That's  not  to  be  thought  on,  Ben.     It's  too  great  a  risk." 

"  I  don't  know,  'squire.  I  could  give  him  a  dig  while  you  are 
talking  with  him  ;  and  if,  when  I  made  the  motion,  you  could  take 
him  by  the  throat,  or  only  dash  your  hat  in  his  face  to  confuse  him, 
I  think  it  might  be  done  easily  enough." 

Pickett  showed  his  bowie-knife  as  he  spoke,  which  he  had  care 
fully  hidden  in  his  bosom,  unpcrceived  by  his  guest,  before  he  went 
abroad.  But  this  plan,  though,  perhaps,  the  best,  met  with  no  en 
couragement  from  his  more  politic,  or,  to  speak  plainly,  more  timid 
companion.  lie  shook  his  head,  and  the  voice  of  the  emissary  at  a 
little  distance,  was  heard,  as  he  sang  some  rude  ditty  to  cheer  the 
solitude  of  his  situation,  or  perhaps  to  notify  the  twain  that  he  was 
becoming  impatient. 

"Hark!  he  approaches  us,"  said  Hurdis.  "Let  us  say  no  more 
now.  Enough  that  we  understand  each  other.  We  must  watch  his 
game,  in  order  to  determine  upon  our  own  ;  and,  though,  I  would 
not  we  should  do  anything  to-night ;  yet,  what  we  do,  must  not  only 
be  done  without  risk,  but  must  be  done  quickly.  Let  us  go  to  him 
now." 


23G  RICHARD   IIURDIS. 


CHAPTEE  XXXIV. 

THE    SLAVERY   OF   GUILT. 

"  Your  oaths  arc  past,  and  now  subscribe  your  name, 
That  his  own  hand,  may  strike  his  honor  down, 
That  violates  the  smallest  branch  herein." 

—  Love's  Labor's  Lost. 

"  Unto  bad  causes,  swear 
Such  creatures  as  men  doubt.— Julius  Ccesar. 

THE  emissary  had  awaited  the  end  of  their  long  conference 
with  exemplary  patience. 

"  I  could  have  told  you  all  in  fewer  words,"  he  said  bluntly  to  John 
Hurdis  the  moment  they  came  in  sight.  "  The  story  is  soon  told  by 
one  who  is  accustomed  to  it.  I  am  compelled  to  talk  it  over  to  so 
many,  that  I  go  through  it  now  almost  as  a  matter  of  memory,  with  a 
certain  set  of  words  which  I  seldom  have  occasion  to  change.  I  trust 
that  my  brother,  here  has  done  no  discredit  to  my  skill,  by  halving 
it  in  repeating." 

"  I  fear  not,"  replied  Hurdis.  "He  has  certainly  told  enough  to 
startle  one  less  confidently  assured  in  his  own  innocence,  than  myself. 
He  has  unfolded  a  strange  history  in  my  ears.  Can  it  be  true  ?  " 

' '  As  gospel  ! " 

"And  you  really  have  the  large  number  of  persons  leagued 
together  which  he  mentions  ?  " 

"  Full  fifteen  hundred." 

' '  And  for  such  purposes  ?  " 

"Ay  !  " 

f '  And  what  is  your  object  here  ?    What  do  you  seek  from  us  ?  " 

"  To  increase  the  number.     We  seek  friends." 

"  Whcrcfon;  ?  Why  should  you  increase  your  number,  when  such 
an  increase  must  only  diminish  your  resources  ? " 


THE    SLAVERY    OF    GUILT.  237 

"I  don't  know  that  such  will  be  its  effect,  and  it  increases  our 
power.  We  gain  in  strength,  when  we  gain  in  number." 

"But  why  desire  an  increase  of  strength,  when  even  now  you 
have  enough  for  all  your  purposes?" 

"Indeed!  but  who  shall  know  —  who  declare  —  our  purposes?  I, 
even  I,  know  nothing  of  them  all.  I  may  suspect  —  I  may  con 
jecture —  but  I  know  them  not,  They  arc  kept  from  us  till  the 
proper  moment." 

"Indeed— who  should  then  if  you  do  not?  Who  keeps  them 
from  you?" 

"The  grand  council.     They  determine  for  us,  and  we  execute." 

"Who  are  they?" 

"That  must  be  a  secret  from  you,  yet.  You  shall  know  it,  and  all 
our  secrets,  when  you  shall  have  taken  your  several  degrees  in  our 
brotherhood." 

"I  will  take  none!"  said  Ilurdis,  with  more;  emphasis  than 
resolution. 

"  You  do  not  say  it !"  was  the  cool  reply  of  the  emissary.  "You 
dare  not." 

"  How!  not  dare?" 

"  It's  as  much  as  your  life  is  worth." 

"  You  speak  boldly." 

"Because  I  am  confident  of  strength,  my  brother,"  replied 
the  emissary.  "You  will  speak  boldly  too  — more  boldly  than 
now  —  when  you  become  one  of  us.  You  will  feel  your  own 
strength,  when  you  know  ours.  When  you  feel  as  I  do,  that 
there  are  friends  for  ever  nigh,  and  watchful  of  your  safety; 
making  your  enemies  theirs;  guarding  your  footsteps;  fighting 
your  battles;  making  a  common  cause  of  your  interests,  and 
standing  elbow  to  elbow  with  you  in  all  your  dangers.  Where 
fore  should  I  be  bold  enough  to  seek  you  here  —  two  of  you, 
both  strong  men  — both,  most  probably  armed  —  I,  alone,  having 
strength  of  person,  not  greater,  perhaps,  than  either  of  you,  and, 
possibly,  not  so  well  armed  —  but  that  I  feel  myself  thus  mighty 
in  my  connections?  I  know  they  have  taken  my  footsteps  — 
they  know  where  I  am  at  all  seasons,  as  I  know  where  to  find 
others  of  our  brotherhood,  and  if  I  could  not  call  them  at  a  given 
moment,  to  save  me  from  a  sudden  blow,  I  am  at  least  certain  that 
they  know  where,  anci  when  to  avenge  me.  But  for  this,  brothers, 


238  1UCHAKD   HURDIS. 

both,  I  should  not  have  ventured  my  nose  into  your  very  dm,  as  I 
may  call  it,  telling  you  of  your  tricks  upon  travellers,  and  spurring 
L  you  into  our  ranks." 

The  audacious  development  of  the  emissary  absolutely  con- 
founded  the  t\vo  criminals,  before  whom  he  stood.  They  looked  at 
one  another  vacantly,  without  answer  and  the  emissary  smiled 
to  see  in  the  ghastly  starlight,  their  no  less  ghastly  counte 
nances,  lie  put  his  hand  upon  the  arm  of  Kurd  is  who  stood  next  to 
him. 

"I  sec  you  are  troubled,  brother;  but  what  reason  have  you  to 
fear?  The  worst  is  over.  Your  secret  is  known  to  friends — to 
those  only  who  can  and  will  serve  you." 

"Friends!  friends!  God  help  me,  what  sort  of  friends!"  was  the 
bitter  speech  of  Ilimlis,  as  he  listened  to  this  humiliating  sort  of 
consolation.  With  increasing  bitterness  he  continued.  "And  what 
do  our  friends  want  of  me?  what  shall  I  do  for  them  —  what  give 
them?  Their  friendship  must  be  paid  for,  I  suppose.  You  want 
money?" 

"We  do  —  but  none  of  yours." 

"And  why  not  mine  as  well  as  others.  Is  it  not  quite  as 
good?" 

"Quite,  but  not  enough  of  it  perhaps.  But  we  never  take  from 
our  friends  —  from  those  whom  we  are  resolved  to  have  in  our 
brotherhood.  You  might  give  us  money  upon  compulsion,  but  it 
would  ha  scarce  worth  our  while,  to  extort  that,  when  your  coopera 
tion  is  necessary  to  our  other  purposes,  and  must  result  in  getting  us 
a  great  deal  more." 

"I  must  know  how  —  I  must  know  your  other  purposes,  before  I 
consent  to  unite  with  you.  I  will  not  league  with  those  who  are 
common  robbers." 

"Common  robbers,  brother,"  cried  the  emissary,  with  a  con 
temptuous  sneer,  "arc  not,  perhaps,  such  noble  people  as  com 
mon  murderers,  but,  I  take  it,  they  arc  quite  as  virtuous.  But 
we  are  not  common  robbers,  my  brother;  far  from  it.  You  do 
great  injustice  to  the  Mystic  Brotherhood.  Know  from  me  that 
we  arc  simply  seekers  of  justice;  and  we  only  differ  from  all 
others  having  the  same  object,  in  the  means  which  we  take  to 
bring  it  about.  We  are  those  who  redress  the  Avrongs  and  inju 
ries  of  fortune,  who  protect  tJic  poor  from  the  oppressor,  who 


THE    SLAVElvY    OF    GUILT.  239 

v 

subdue  the  insolent,  and  humble  the  presumptuous  and  vain. 
Perhaps  we  are,  in  truth,  the  most  moral  community  under  the 
sun  ;  since  our  policy  keeps  us  from  harming  the  poor,  and, 
if  we  wrong  anybody,  it  is  only  those  who  do.  We  take  life 
but  seldom,  and  then  only  with  the  countenance  of  our  social  laws, 
and  by  the  will  of  the  majority,  except  in  individual  cases,  when 
the  fundamental  law  of  self-protection  makes  the  exception  to 
other  laws  which  arc  specified.  Does  your  courthouse  in  Ma- 
rengo  do  better  than  that — more  wisely,  more  justly?  I  know 
to  the  contrary,  my  brother,  and  so  do  you." 

"  But  we  are  content  with  our  laws,"  said  Hurdis. 

"Ah,  indeed  !  are  you  willing  to  be  tried  by  them  ?  Shall  I 
go  to  the  attorney,  and  tell  him  what  I  know  ?  shall  I  point  to 
your  agent  beside  you.  and  say  he  shot  down  a  tall  fellow  with 
out  any  notice,  and  would  have  robbed  him  of  his  money  if  he 
could,  and  all  on  your  account  ?  " 

"  You  could  not  say  that  !"  said  Hurdis  in  trembling  haste, 
"his  robbery  was  not  our  object." 

"  His  death  was." 

"Ay,  but  he  was  an  enemy- — a  hateful,  malignant  enemy  — 
one  who  trampled  on  his  elder  and  his  brother — 

"Was  he  your  brother?"  exclaimed  the  emissary,  starting 
back  at  the  words,  and  looking  upon  the  criminal  in  undisguised 
astonishment. 

The  silence  of  Hurdis  answered  the  question  sufficiently. 

"Your  own  brother  —  the  child  of  the  same  mother!  Well, 
it  must  have  been  a  cruel  wrong  that  he  did  to  you." 

"It   was!"    stammered   out    Hurdis  in  reply. 

"It  must  have  been,"  said  the  other — "it  must  have  been. 
I  would  take  a  great  deal  from  a  brother,  if  I  had  one,  before 
I'd  shoot  him  ;  and  then,  I  tell  you,  if  'twas  necessary  to  be 
done,  my  own  hands  should  do  it.  I  wouldn't  send  another 
man  on  the  business.  But,  I've  nothing  to  do  with  that.  All 
that  I've  got  to  say  is,  that  you're  just  the  sort  of  man  we  want. 
You  must  be  one  of  us,  swear  to  stand  by  us,  help  us,  and  coun 
sel  with  us,  and  in  all  respects  obey  the  grand  council,  and  be 
faithful." 

"Anything  but  that.  Tell  me,  my  good  fellow,  is  there  no 
alternative?  Will  not  money  r.r.swcr  ?  —  you  shall  have  it," 


240  lUCIIAUD    IILTiDIS. 

I 

"Money!  why,  what  can  you  give,  that  we  might  not  take! 
What  arc  you  worth  that  you  talk  so  freely  of  money  ?  We 
can  take  your  life  and  money  too.  You  only  live  bv  our  indul 
gence.  ABC!  why  do  we  indulge  you  ?  Not  because  of  any 
affection  that  we  bear  you,  nor  because  of  any  admiration  which 
we  entertain  of  your  abilities  and  valor,  but  simply  because  we 
lack  assistants,  here  and  there,  throughout  the  whole  South 
west,  in  order  to  facilitate  the  progress  of  certain  great  events 
which  we  have  in  preparation^  But  for  this,  we  should  com 
pound  with  you,  and  take  a  portion. of  your  wealth,  in  lieu 
of  your  life,  which  you  have  forfeited.  This  is  what  we  do  daily. 
Whenever  we  detect  a  criminal  —  a  friend,  as  it  were,  ready 
made  to  our  hands — we  do  not  expose,  but  guard,  his  secret; 
and  when  he  becomes  one  of  us,  his  secret  becomes  ours,  which 
it  is  then  no  less  our  policy  than  principle  to  preserve.  No, 
no,  my  brother — we  want  you,  not  your  money.  Do  you  keep 
your  money,  but  we  will  keep  you." 

"Great  God!"  muttered  the  miserable  wretch,  in  self-rebuke, 
"into  what  a  pit  have  I  fallen!  Better  die  —  better  perish  at 
once,  than  submit  to  such  a  bondage  as  this." 

"As  you  please,  my  friend  ;  but  to  one  or  the  other  you  must 
submit.  You  have;  heard  my  terms :  you  must  decide  quickly. 
I  have  not  much  time  to  waste — I  have  other  members  to  secure 
for  the  confederacy,  and  must  leave. you  in  a  day  or  so." 

"What  am  I  to  do?  what  is  it  you  require  ?" 

"Your  oath  — your  solemn  oath  to  do  what  I  shall  enjoin 
upon  you  now,  and  whatever  else  may  at  times  be  enjoined 
upon  you  by  the  grand  council." 

"  What  may  that  be  ?  what  sort  of  duties  do  they  enjoin  ?  " 
'  I  cannot  answer  you  that.  Our  duties  are  various,  and  are 
accommodated  to  the  several  capacities  and  conditions  of  our 
members.  You,  for  example,  are  a  man  of  substance  and  family. 
From  you  the  tasks  exacted  would  seldom  be  of  an  arduous 
character.  You  will,  perhaps,  be  required  to  furnish  monthly 
reports  of  the  conduct,  wealth,  principles,  and  pursuits,  of  your 
neighbors,  particularly  the  most  wealthy,  active,  and  intelligent. 
It  is  the  most  important  branch  of  our  study  to  know  all  those 
Tvho  are  able  to  serve  or  to  annoy  us.  You  must  also  commu- 
licate  to  us  the  names  of  all  who  intend  emigrating  from  you, 


THE   SLAVERY   OF   GUILT.  241 

parts;  find  out  aud  let  us  know  their  destination,  the  route  they  take, 
the  amount  of  money  they  have  with  them,  their  arms  and  resolu 
tion.  I  will  give  you  an  address  which  will  enable  vou  to  communi 
cate  these  things." 

The  enumeration  of  these  degrading  offices  filled  ;he  measure  of 
John  Ilimlis's  humiliation.  A  sense  of  the  most  shameful  servitude 
vexed  his  soul,  and  he  absolutely  moaned  aloud,  as  in  the  extremity 
of  his  despair  he  demanded  — 

"May  there  be  more  than  this  ?  " 

"Hardly.  You  will,  perhaps,  be  required  to  meet  the  brother 
hood  before  long,  in  order  to  learn  what  further  duties  they  may 
impose." 

"  Meet  them!  —  where  —  where  do  they  meet?  " 

"Everywhere  —  but  where  is  not  to  be  said  at  this  time.  You 
will  be  warned  in  season  by  one  of  our  messengers,  and  possibly  by 
myself,  who  will  show  you  the  sign,  and  whom  you  must  follow. 
Let  me  show  you  the  sign  now,  and  administer  the  oath." 

The  victim  submitted,  as  Pickett  had  already  done,  and  the  bonds 
of  iniquity  were  sealed  and  signed  between  them.  John  Ilurdis  be 
gan  to  feel  that  there  was  no  slavery  so  accursed,  no  tyranny  so  un 
scrupulous,  no  fate  so  awful,  as  that  of  guilt  He  almost  began  to 
steel  himself  with  the  conviction  that  it  would  be  an  easier  matter 
for  him  to  give  himself  up  at  once  to  the  executioner  of  the  laws. 
With  a  feeling  almost  akin  to  despair,  he  beheld  the  cool  emissary 
take  out  his  pocket  book,  and  in  the  uncertain  light  of  the  night 
record  their  names  —  nay,  actually  tax  both  himself  and  Pickett  for 
lie  right  orthography  in  doing  so  —  with  all  the  exe?r>plary  and 
Xmrtly  nicety  of  one  "learned  in  the  law." 


242  RICHARD   HURDK 


CHAPTEE  XXXV. 

DESPERATE   MEASURES. 

"  It  must  be  done: 

There  is  no  timely  season  in  delay, 

When  life  is  waiting.    I  must  take  the  sword, 

Though  my  soul  trembles.    Would  it  were  not  so ! " 

Conspirator, 

THE  conference  was  over.  The  emissary  did  not  seem  willing  to 
waste  more  words  than  were  absolutely  necessary.  He  was  a  man  of 
business.  But  Hurdis,  to  whom  the  conference  had  been  so  terrible, 
he  was  disposed  to  linger. 

"I  must  speak  with  you,  Ben  Pickett,  before  you  go,"  said  he 
hoarsely  to  his  colleague.  The  emissary  heard  the  words,  and  went 
aside,  saying  as  he  did  so,  with  a  good-humored  smile  of  indifference 
upon  his  countenance  — 

' '  Wtyt !  you  would  not  that  I  should  hear,  though  you  know  we 
are  now  of  the  same  family.  You  will  grow  wiser  one  day." 

"It's  nothing,"  said  Hurdis,  "a  small  matter  —  a  mere  trifle," 
and  his  tones  faltered  in  the  utterance  of  the  lie. 

"It's  of  no  account,"  said  the  emissary,  "I  do  not  care  to  know 
it ; "  and  whistling  as  he  went,  he  put  aside  the  bushes  which  sur 
rounded  the  group,  and  made  his  way  toward  the  road. 

"Ben  Pickett,"  said  Hurdis,  when  the  emissary  had  got  out 
of  hearing,  "I  cannot  bear  this  dreadful  bondage;  it  \vill  kill 
me  if  I  suffer  it  a  week.  We  must  break  from  it  ;  we  must  put 
an  end  to  it  in  some  way  or  other.  I  cannot  stoop  to  do  the 
dirty  business  of  this  confederacy —  these  grand  rascals  —  and 
what  is  our  security  ?  This  scoundrel,  or  any  one  of  the  pack, 
may  expose  us  at  any  moment,  and,  after  toiling  deeper  in  the 
mire,  we  shall  be  taken  out  of  it  at  the  cart's  tail.  It  is  not  to 


DESPERATE  MEASURES.  243 

be  thought  on  —  I  can  not  bear  it.  Speak  to  me.  Say,  what  are  we 
to  do  ? " 

"Well,  'squire,  I  can't,  say;  it's  for  you  to  speak.  You  know 
best." 

"Nonsense,  Ben  Pickett  !  this  is  no  time  for  idle  compliments. 
It  is  you  who  should  know  best.  You  are  better  taught  in  the 
tricks  of  these  scoundrels  than  I  am,  and*can  give  better  counsel 
of  what  we  are  to  do.  Something  must  be  done.  Is  there  no 
easier  way  to  get  rid  of  this  fellow  than  by—  —you  know  what  I 
mean  ?  1  would  not  that  either  of  us  should  do  any  more  of  that 
business.  ' 

"  I  reckon  not,  'squire.  There's  only  one  way  to  stop  a  wagging 
tongue,  that  I  know  of ;  and  if  you're  willing  to  lend  a  hand,  why, 
the  sooner  it's  done  the  better.  The  chap  stands  by  the  end  of  the 
broken  fence — 

The  constitutional  timidity  of  John  Ilurdis  arrested  the  sugges 
tion  ere  it  was  fully  spoken. 

"That's  too  great  a  risk,  Ben  ;  besides,  we  have  not  come  pre 
pared." 

"  I  don't  know,  'squire  :  I've  get  a  knife  that's  snarp  enough,  and 
I  reckon  you've  got  your  pistols.  Twould  be  easy  enough  us  we* 
walk  along  beside  him.  The  night's  clear  enough  to  let  you  take 
good  sight  upon  him — 

"  But  should  the  pistol  miss  fire,  Ben — 

"  Why,  then,  my  knife,"  was  the  prompt  reply. 

"It  might  do,  IK'H,  if  he  were  not  armed  also.  But  you  remem 
ber  he  told  us  that  he  was,  and  it  is  but  reasonable  to  think  that 
he  must  be,  coming  on  such  a  business  as  this.  He  must  not  only 
be  armed,  but  well  armed.  No,  no  —  it  will  not  do  just  now  ; 
and  there's  another  objection  to  our  doing  it  here :  it's  too  nigh 
home.  Let  him  leave  us  first,  Ben,  and  it's  safest  in  every  respect 
to  give  him  long  shot  for  his  passport.  That's  our  plan,  Ben  —  I  see 
no  other." 

"  Just  as  you  say,  'squire  —  just  as  you  say;  but,  to  tell  3*011  the 
truth,  I'm  almost  of  the  notion  that  it's  best  to  come  toe-to-toe, 
at  the  jump  :  take  it  now,  in  the  '  starlight,  and  have  it  over. 
It's  a  monstrous  cold  business,  now,  that  watching  behind  a 
bush  with  your  rifle,  till  your  enemy  conies  in  sight ;  it's  a  cold  busi 
ness." 


244  RICHARD  TIURDTS. 

"Yes,  it  may  be,  but  it's  the  safest  of  all,  and  our  safety  is  now 
the  single  object  of  both  of  us.  That  must  be  the  way,  Ben; 
and — 

"But  who'll  watch  for  him?  You,  I  think  — there's  no  other, 
for,  as  he  sleeps  at  my  house,  I  can't  leave  him,  you  know,  to  take  a 
stand.  You'll  have  to  do  it." 

The  suggestion  was  afi  astounding  one ;  and  for  a  few  moments, 
Hindis  was  puzzled  and  silent.  To  become  himself  a  princi 
pal  actor  in  such  a  business  was  no  part  of  his  desire,  lie  w;is 
unprepared,  as  well  by  habit  as  constitution,  to  engage  in  deeds 
of  violence,  where  he  himself  was  the  chief  performer,  though 
at  no  sort  of  personal  risk.  Not  that  he  had  any  moral  or 
human  scruples  in  the  matter.  \V7e  have  seen  enough  of  him 
already  to  know  the  reverse.  It  was  necessary,  however,  for  him 
to  say  something  ;  and  he  proposed  a  course  to  his  confederate 
which  was  vacillating  and  indecisive,  and  could  promise  not  even 
a  probable  advantage.  He  could  not  muster  courage  enough  to 
recognize  the  necessity  of  doing  all  himself,  and  looking  his  task  in 
the  face. 

"Well,  but  you  could  let  him  off,  and  follow  him,  as  you  fol 
lowed  Dick  Ilurdis." 

"  Yes,  if  I  knew  his  course  so  well.  But  when  he  leaves  the 
neighborhood  road,  who  knows  where  he'll  strike?  All  we  know 
is,  that  he  goes  upward.  We  are  sure  of  him  then  before  he  gets 
to  the  '  Crooked  branch,'  which  is  but  ten  miles  off.  There 
you  could  watch  for  him  snugly  enough,  and  be  sure  of  him 
from  the  opposite  hill  for  a  good  quarter  of  an  hour.  But  it  would 
be  impossible  for  me  to  bent  round  him,  so  as  to  get  in  front,  before 
he  reaches  that  point  ;  and,  after  that,  who  knows  where  he  turns 
his  bridle  ? " 

"Well,  Ben,  but  you  must  find  that  out.  You  can  inquire  as 
you  go,  and  mark  his  hoofs." 

The  other  shook  his  head. 

"  I'm  dubious  about  that  way,  'squire.  If  the  fellow  says  true, 
that  he  has  his  friends  all  about  him,  I  may  be  asking  about  his 
tracks  from  one  of  them,  ami  then  all's  dicky  with  both  of  us.  I 
think,  'squire,  there's  only  that  one  way,  which  is  the  safe  one. 
You'll  have  to  take  the  bush  at  '  Crooked  branch,'  and  do  this  busi 
ness  yourself." 


DESPERATE    MEASURES.  245 

"  But  I'm  not  a  sure  shot  with  the  rifle,  Ben;  and  to  miss, 
were  to  knock  everything  in  the  head." 

"Take  your  double  barrel;  you're  a  good  shot  with  that. 
'Put  twenty  buckshot  in  each  barrel,  and  give  him  one  after  the 
other.  He  won't  know  the  difference." 

"  If  I  should  miss,  Ben — 

"You  can't  miss — how  can  you?  The  path's  clear  —  noth 
ing  to  stop  your  sight.  You're  out  of  his  reach;  you're  on  the 
hill.  You  see  him  coming  toward  —  going  round  by  —  you, 
und  you  see  him  for  two  hundred  yards  on  a  clear  track  after 
he's  passed  you.  There's  no  chance  of  his  getting  oil',  'squire; 
and  — 

"Ha!  what's  that?"  cried  ITurdis,  as  the  sound  of  a  pistol- 
shot  aroused  all  the  sleeping  echoes  of  the  wood.  The  voice 
of  the  emissary  followed,  and  he  was  heard  approaching  them 
through  the  bushes. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,  brothers;  but,  believing  you  to  have 
fallen  asleep,  I  thought  to  arouse  you  up,  for  fear  that  you'd 
take  cold.  Are  you  most  done,  for  I'm  getting  cold  myself  ?  " 

They  were  taught  by  this  —  which  the  emissary  probably  de 
sired—that  he  had  fire-arms,  and  enough  too,  to  render  the 
loss  of  one  load  a  matter  of  small  consequence. 

"The  fellow's  getting  impatient,"  said  Ilurdis,  in  suppressed 
tones  to  Pickett.  Then,  crying  aloud,  "  AVe  will  be  witii  3011 
directly,"  he  hurried  through  the  rest  of  his  blood v  arrange 
ments  for  the  ensuing  day.  When  they  were  about  to  go  forth, 
Pickett  suddenly  stopped  his  employer. 

"I  had  almost  forgot,  'squire,  but  do  you  know  Bill  Carring- 
ton's  got  back  already.  lie  gave  me  a  mighty  bad  scare  to 
day,  that  I  han't  got  over  yet." 

"  How?  "  demanded  Hurdis,  with  natural  alarm. 

"  I  saw  him  going  from  my  house  door.  He  hadn't  been  in 
it,  so  Betsy  swore  to  me,  though  I  could  almost  swear  I  saw  him 
come  out;  and  without  stopping  to  say  what  he  wanted,  he  took 
to  the  woods,  like  one  more  frightened  than  myself." 

"  Strange!  He  hadn't  come  home  by  dinner  time  to-day. 
Did  you  take  after  him?" 

"Yes,  after  a  little  while  I  did;  but  I  was  too  much  scared 
at  first  to  do  anything  quickly  — not  that  I  was  so  much  scared 
by  Bill  Carrington,  as  by  another  that  I  saw  just  afore  him." 


M6  RICHARD  1JURDIS, 

"  Who  was  that?" 

"Dick  Ilurdis." 

John  Ilurdis  started  back,  and  with  jaws  distended,  and 
cheeks,  whose  pallid  hue  denoted  the  cowardly  heart  within 
him,  almost  gasped  his  words  of  astonishment. 

"Ha!  —  you  do  not  say — but  —  why  ask?  You  had  not 
killed  him  then!  —  and  yet,  if  you  had  wounded  him  even,  how 
could  he  be  there?  " 

"  lie  was  not  there,"  replied  the  other,  in  low  and  trembling 
accents  —  "it  was  his  ghost !  " 

"Pshaw!  I  believe  not  in  such  things,"  was  the  answer  of 
Ilurdis;  but  his  faltering  tones  contradicted  the  contidence  of 
his  language.  "  It  was  your  imagination,  Ben  — nothing  else." 

And,  speaking  thus,  he  drew  nigher  to  Pickett,  and  looked 
cautiously  around  him.  The  other,  who  had  faith,  had  less 
fear  than  him  who  had  none. 

"Well,  I  can't  say  I  don't  believe  in  the  things  that  I  see. 
Call  it  imagination,  or  what  you  will,  it  gave  me  a  mighty 
scare,  'squire.  But,  come,  sir;  let  us  go  to  the  man;  he  is  ap 
proaching  us  again — I  hear  his  whistle.*' 

"A  moment/'  said  Ilurdis.  Pickett  hung  back  while  the 
other  hesitated  to  speak.  It  required  an  unusual  effort  to  en 
able  him  to  do  so. 

"I  say,  Ben,  I'm  ready  to  do  this  matter,  but  if  you  could 
contrive  any  w7ay  to  take  it  off  my  hands,  I  should  like  it — " 

"  I  don't  see,  'squire,  how  I  can, 'i  said  the  other. 

"  If  a  couple  hundred,  or  even  three,  Ben  — 

"I'd  like  to  serve  you,  'squire,  but — 

"Say  five,  Ben." 

"  I  reckon  it's  impossible,  'squire.  I  see  no  way;  besides,  to 
tell  you  the  truth,  I'd  rather  not.  When  I  think  that  the  blood 
on  my  hands,  already,  is  got  for  fighting  another  man's  battles, 
'squire,  I'm  worse  satisfied  than  ever  with  what  I've  done,  and 
I'm  clear  for  doing  no  more,  hereafter,  than  is  for  my  own 
safety." 

"But  this  is  for  our  own  safety,  Ben  —  we  are  in  the  same 
boat." 

"Not  so,  'squire;  our  boats  are  different  —  very  different. 
You  arc  in  a  fine  V.rge  ship  with  mighty  sails — I  am  in  a  poor 


DESPERATE    MEASURES.  24? 

dug-out.  If  I  lose  my  dug-out,  it's  no  great  matter.  But  your  ship, 
'squire  — if  you  lose  that  ? " 

•'  I  lose  more  than  you  do,  and  yet  we  both  lose  all  we  have,  Ben, 
You,  your  life  —  I,  mine  !  It  matters  not  much  which  of  us  is  the 
most  wealthy,  since  we  both  lose  everything  in  losing  life.  Our  lose 
is  equal  then,  and  it  is  your  interest,  quite  as  much  as  mine,  to  pr:'; 
this  fellow  out  of  the  way." 

"Well,  'squire,  the  truth  is,  I'm  tired  of  scuffling  for  life.  I've 
been  scuffling  for  it  all  my  life.  I  won't  scuffle  any  more.  I'll  take 
the  world  as  I  find  it.  I'll  take  my  chance  with  this  fellow,  and  run 
the  risk  of  his  blabbing,  sooner  than  squat  down  behind  a  bush  and 
blow  his  brains  out. " 

"  And  yet  you  expect  me  to  do  it,  Ben  ? " 

"  Xo,  I  don't  expect  you.  You  ask  me  how  to  put  this  fellow  out 
of  your  way,  and  I  tell  you."  I  know  no  other  way,  unless  you'll 
come  to  the  scratch  at  once,  and  have  it  out  with  him  now,  while  the 
stars  are  shining." 

"  What  !  just  when  you've  heard  his  pistol  too,  and  know  that  he's 
well  provided  in  arms  !  That  would  be  madness." 

"  I  know  no  othei  way,  'squire,"  was  the  indifferent  reply. 

"  Ah,  Ben,  don't  desert  me  !  "  was  the  pitiful  appeal  of  the  imbe 
cile  villain  "  Don't  fly  from  me  at  the  very  first  sight  of  danger  !" 

"  I  don't,  'squire!  I'm  ready  to  jump  now,  this  minute,  into  its 
throat,  though  you  know,  as  well  as  I  do,  that  it's  full  of  teeth!" 

"  That  we  must  not  do  !  We  should  both  perish,  perhaps  —  cer 
tainly,  if  my  pistol  should  miss  fire  !" 

"  But  it  would  be  a  warm  scuffle  for  it,  'squire;  and  that's  better 
than  waiting  in  a  cold  bush." 

"  We  must  not  think  of  such  a  plan.  It  would  be  folly.  The  first 
is  the  best  after  all  —  the  safest.  I  must  do  it,  then,  myself.  I  will ! 
why  should  I  fear?  All  rests  on  it,  and  he — what  is  he?  The 
deed  wrere  a  benefit  to  society,  not  less  than  to  ourselves." 

A  sudden  fit  of  courage  and  morality  grew  at  once  prominent  to 
gether  in  the  spirit  of  the  dastard.  Driven  to  the  necessity,  he,  at 
length,  seemed  to  .embrace  it  with  the  resolution  of  the  man;  and, 
thus  resolved,  he  went  forth  to  meet  the  person  wrhom,  the  next  day, 
he  had  decreed  for  the  sacrifice. 


248  RICHARD  IIURDL: 


CHAPTER    XXXV 

THE   HEART   FAILS. 

"  Like  dastard  currcs,  that  having  at  abay 
The  savage  beast  embost  in  wearie  chaee, 
Dare  not  adventure  on  the  stubborn  prey, 
Ne  byte  before,  but  rorae  from  place  to  place, 
To  '  ;  f  a  snatch,  v,  lien  turned  is  his  face." 

Faery  Queen* 

THE  emissary  of  the  mystic  confederacy  had  been  well  chosen  for 
the  business  upon  which  he  came.  He  discriminated  at  a  glance  be 
tween  the  characters  of  John  Hurdis  and  his  agent.  The  imbecility 
of  the  one  had  been  the  chief  occasion  of  his  vices;  the  destitution  of 
the  other  had  originated  his.  A  proper  education,  alone,  with  due 
reference  to  their  several  deliciencies,  could  have  saved  them;  and, 
under  strict  guidance  and  just  guardianship,  they  had,  doubtlessly, 
been  both  good  men.  They  were  not,  however;  and  the  task  of  the 
emissary  was  to  make  the  particular  deficiencies  of  each,  the  agent 
for  securing  the  required  degree  of  influence  over  them.  To  Pickett, 
when  Hurdis  left  them,  he  had  that  to  say,  which,  though  it  did  not 
entirely  answer  the  intended  purpose  of  securing  his  hearty  coopera 
tion,  had,  at  least,  the  effect  of  confounding  him.  Though  the  agent 
of  Hurdis  could  not  be  immediately  changed  into  an  enemy,  he  was 
effectually  prevented  from  appearing  forever  after  in  the  attitude  c2 
an  active  friend.  The  words  were  few  which  effected  this  object. 

"That  is  a  poor  creature  for  whom  you  risked  your  life.  12 
he  dared,  he  would  even  now  have  you  risk  it  again  for  him. 
There  is  no  need  to  risk  it  for  yourself.  He  would  pay  you 
well  to  murder  me  !  The  fool  !  as  if  I,  only,  am  in  possession 
of  his  secret  —  as  if  I  were  utterly  unguarded  in  coming  down 


THE   IIEAliT   FAILS.  249 

into  his  jaws,  or  stood  in  any  sort  of  danger  of  their  closing  upon 
rne!  I'll  tell  you  what,  brother — when  you  stab  or  shoot,  let  it  be 
on  your  own  account.  If  you  do  it  for  another,  let  it  be  for  one  who 
is  not  too  great  a  coward  to  do  it  for  himself.  Here's  a  wretch 
would  kill  his  enemy  —  that's  nothing  —  if  his  own  arm  held  the 
weapon!  Has  the  feeling  which  makes  him  hate  —  the  malignity 
which  prompts  him  to  revenge  —  yet  lacks  the  very  quality  which 
alone  can  make  hate  honorable,  and  malignity  manly.  By  the  seal 
of  the  grand  council,  if  'twere  with  me,  I'd  compound  with  the 
fellow  for  his  life  —  take  his  money,  as  much  as  he  could  give  — 
and  let  him  off  from  the  confederacy.  I  despise  such  sneaks,  and 
would  trust  them  with  nothing.  And  yet,  they  have  their  uses. 
To  save  his  own  throat,  he  can  tell  us  where  others  arc  to  be 
found,  and  do  the  business  of  a  spy,  if  he  lacks  the  boldness  to  take 
the  weapon  of  the  soldier.  The  scoundrel,  too,  to  strike  his  own 
brother;  there's  no  trusting  such  a  chap,  Piekctt,  and  it's  for 
tunate  for  you  that  another  has  him  on  the  skirts  as  well  as  your 
self.  If  ever  this  business  had  come  out,  you  would  have 
suffered  all ;  he'd  have  made  you  the  scapegoat,  and  would  have 
lacked  the  will,  as  well  as  the  courage,  to  have  helped  you, 
by  a  proper  effort,  out  of  the  halter.  He  is  planning  something 
now  —  I  know  it  —  something  against  me;  but  he  must  be  a 
keener  hunter  of  blood  than  I  think  him,  to  find  me  nap 
ping.  By  mid-day  to-morrow,  I'll  put  another  hound  upon  his 
track,  so  that  he  shall  take  no  step  without  the  council  knowing 
it." 

Thus  speaking,  the  emissary  led  the  way  back  to  the  hovel 
of  Pickett,  with  a  manner  of  the  utmost  unconcern.  The  latter 
was  too  much  bewildered  by  what  he  heard  —  by  his  own  pecul 
iar  situation,  and  the  position  in  which  his  former  coadjutor 
was  likely  to  be  placed  —  to  think  of  anything  calmly,  or  to  make 
any  answer.  He  began,  with  that  easy  pliability  to  vice  and 
its  suggestions,  which  had  always  marked  his  character,  to  feel 
that  there  was  no  need  for  him  to  struggle  against  a  power  that 
almost  seemed  like  a  fVe  ;  and  if  he  had  any  reflections  at  all, 
they  were  those  of  one,  who,  buffeting  much  with  the  world's 
'roubles,  had,  at  last,  learned  to  make  something  of  the  worst  of 
them.  Ills  mind  began  to  address  itself  to  the  advantages  which 
might  result  from  this  new  association,  and  it  was  not  an  emis- 


250  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

sary,  so  faithful  to  his  trust  as  the  one  before  us,  who  would  suffer 
these  to  go  unraustered  into  notice.  Before  Pickett  slept  that  night, 
he  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  he  might  as  well  take  his  share  in 
the  business  of  the  mystic  confederacy,  which  promised  so  magnifi 
cently,  and  paid  so  well. 

But,  meanwhile,  what  of  John  Ilurdis  ?  "What  were  his  thoughts 
—  his  dreams — that  night?  Anything  but  pleasant  and  promis 
ing.  The  hopes  of  Pickett,  springing  from  his  poverty  and 
destitution,  were  nothing  to  him.  He  was  rich  —  a  man  of  family 
and  substance.  Standing  fair  in  the  world's  esteem  —  seeking  the 
regards  and  the  affections  of  the  virtuous  and  the  beautiful — what 
were  his  reflections  in  the  position  in  which  he  now  found  him 
self  ?  His  felony  brought  home  to  his  doors,  and  only  withheld 
from  public  exposure  —  at  the  mercy  of  a  band  of  professed  felons  — 
and  then,  only,  by  his  timely  compliance  with  their  laws  and 
exactions  —  by  his  becoming  one  with  them  —  forced  into  their 
crimes  —  forced  into  all  their  thousand  responsibilities.  What  a 
mesh  of  dangers  gathered  about  him!  What  a  fecund  crime  was 
that  which  he  had  committed!  The  teeth  of  his  malignity  were 
already  sprouting  from  the  ground,  and  under  his  own  feet.  Well 
might  he  tremble  at  every  step  he  was  about  to  take,  and 
bitterly  curse  the  folly,  not  less  than  the  wickedness,  of  the 
deed  which  he  had  commissioned  Pickett  to  perform.  And  Pick 
ett,  too,  had  deserted  him  —  that  was  a  blow  not  less  severe 
than  the  rest.  Could  he  have  thrust  upon  the  hands  of  his  agent 
the  other  deed  yet  to  be  done,  he  had  been  comparatively  easy, 
not  so  much  because  of  the  service  itself,  but  because  he 
would  not  then  have  been  taught  so  terribly  to  feel  the  awful 
solitude  of  crime.  The  desertion  of  the  confederate  is,  perhaps, 
the  first-felt  warning  which  a  just  fate  despatches  to  the 
vicious. 

"Fool!  miserable  fool  that  I  wras ! "  raved  the  miserable  Hur- 
dis,  when  he  found  himself  alone.  "Where  am  I?  What  have 
I  done?  Where  do  I  stand?  The  earth  opens  before  me!  Would 
it  hide  me?  I  have  labored  wildly,  and  without  profit.  I 
am  no  nearer  to  Mary  Eusterby  than  ever!  —  nay,  farther  off 
than  ever  !  and  th<!  bloo-1  of  a  brother,  shed  that  I  might  clear 
the  way  to  her,  is  iiMr-.n  r.iy  hrinds  in  vain  !  She  rejects  me, 
and  I  have  gained  nothing  but  misery  and  danger.  I  am  at  th^ 


THE    HEART    FAILS.  251 

mercy  of  the  worst  —  the  most  desperate  of  mankind  —  with  nc 
ties  to  bind  them  in  my  service  and  to  secrecy !  The  very 
wealth,  which  I  believed  capable  to  do  everything,  rejected  at 
my  hands!  There  is  I".1*;  ore  hop-,  —but  one  chance  for  free 
dom  !  It  must  be  done,  ard  — •  double  misery  !  —  my  hand  alone 
must  do  it!  I  rnui-t  not  shrink  —  I  must  not  falter  now!  On 
the  word  of  this  desperado  »ny  life  hangs  !  I  must  risk  life  that 
lie  should  not  spe;ik  that  word!  lie  must  be  silenced!  Bet 
ter  that  I  should  do  r.o  now,  than  wait  till  the  sheriff  knocks  at 
the  door  !  It  can  not  be  worse  —  it  may  save  all !" 

His  terror  dM  not  deprive  him  of  his  cautions,  ncr  cpu'ate 
to  defeat  his  deliberate  thoughts  uj.  on  the  course  which  he  re 
solved  to  tak'3.  On  the  contrary,  it  rather  contributed  to  in 
crease  his  acuteness,  and  make  his  caution  more  deliberate  than 
ever.  Nature,  which  denied  him  courage,  seemed  to  have  pro 
vided  him,  in  his  strait,  with  a  double  share  of  cunning  ;  and  OMC 
little  incident  will  sufficiently  serve  to  show  !.-is  own  providence 
in  making  his  arrangements.  He  had  to  takt..  his  gun  from  his 
chamber,  after  he  had  carefully  leaded  both  barrels  with  buck- 
fili<'>t,  and,  lest  he  might  be  met  while  descending  the  stairs,  by 
any  of  the  family  or  servants,  he  lowered  it  from  his  window  by 
means  of  a  string  —  thus  obviating  any  danger  of  being  seen 
armed  at  an  unusual  hour  of  the  night.  Before  the  clay  ha-1 
dawned,  he  had  made  his  way  to  the  place  desigred  for  his  COM 
cealment ;  and  with  the  patience,  if  not  the  ii difiercnco  of  the 
professed  outlaw,  he  waited  for  the  approach  of  one. 

TJo  i.ih,a  to  wait  for  some  hours,  for  i'ickett's  hospitality 
t-.-'Oy&ni  h\6  new  associate,  would  not  sutler  him  to  depart  till 
niter  breakfast.  The  panic  consideration  was  not  sufficient, 
h« .  wever,  to  induce  the  former  to  acquaint  the  emissary  with 
the  ambush  which  lie  well-knew  had  been  set  for  him.  His 
regards  Lad  not  yet  been  warmed  to  such  a  degree.  His  policy 
may  ba  comprised  in  a  few  words. 

''If,"  thought  he,  "John  Ilurdis  kills  him,  well  and  good  — 
I've  nothing  to  do  with  it  —  I  can  lose  nothing  by  it,  but  will 
most  probably  escape  from  a  connection,  which  is  decidedly 
daageious.  But  whetner  I  escape  from  the  connection  or  not, 
at  least  I  am  safe  from  any  charges  of  having  done  this  deed , 
I  am  certainly  untroubled  with  the  consciousness  of  it.  Should 


252  RICHARD    IIUIIDIS. 

he  not  kill  him,  still  well  and  good  -  —  we  stand  where  we  are 
T  am  neither  worse  nor  better.  The  confederacy,  if  it  has  itt 
dangers,  has  its  rewards  also  —  and  what  am  I,  and  what  are  my 
prospects  in  the  world,  that,  I  should  heod  the  former,  when  the 
latter  are  to  me,  so  important  a  consideration.  Live  or  die,  my 
orother" — here  he  adopted  the  affectionate  language  of  the 
emissary  — "  live  or  die,  my  brother,  it's  all  one  to  me." 

And  with  these  thoughts,  though  unexpressed,  he  sent  the 
emissary  forward  on  his  path  of  danger.  As  was  inevitable 
he  took  tho  load  upward  according  to  tho  opinion  of  Pickctt. 
and,  it  may  be  added,  his  course  was  directly  over  the  ground 
whlc'i  ho  held  already  travelled.  The  distance  was  small. 
howev3r,  from  tho  house  of  Pickett,  to  the  spot  where  Ilurdit. 
a w a  ted  him;  and  the  fellow  took  no  long  time  in  approaching 
it.  Meanwhile,  what  were  the  emotions  of  the  felonious  watcher. 
We  ifiay  imagine  —  I  can  not  describe  them.  Life  and  death 
depended  upon  his  resolve — so  he  thought,  at  least — yet  wab 
he  still  irresolute.  He  had  chosen,  with  the  judgment  of  one 
experienced  in  such  matters,  the  very  spot  vhich,  for  all  other  a 
afforded  him  the  best  opportunity  of  putting  his  design  in  exe 
cution.  Approaching  or  departing  from  him,  his  victim  -was  at 
his  mercy  for  a  full  hundred  yards  OR  eit'ier  hand.  Tho  bushes 
around  effectually  concealed  Kim  —  his  ai.i  was  unobstructed  — 
the  path  was  not  often  travelled — not  -ixble  to  frequent  inter 
ruption —  the  day  was  dark  —  there  wrr  a:.t  a  breath  stirring 
Yet  the  hand  of  the  assassin  trembled,  and  tie  tremor  at  his 
heart  was  even  greater  than  that  of  his  hand.  Nature  had  not 
designed  him  for  a  bold  villain.  He  might  have  n^do  a  cun 
ning  shopkeeper,  and  succeeded,  perhaps,  in  doing  a  far  better 
business,  though  not  a  more  moral  one,  in  vending  bad  wares, 
•uid  spurious  money,  than  by  crying,  "  stand"  to  a  true  man 
His  nerves  were  not  of  the  iron  order,  and  painfully,  indeed, 
was  he  made  conscious  of  this  defect,  as  he  beheld  hie  enemy 
approach.  No  opportunity  could  have  been  better.  Tiie  road 
by  the  branch,  above  which  he  lay  in  waiting,  was  almost  raider 
him  ;  and  for  a  good  three  minutes,  the  movement  of  the  travel 
ler  was  in  a  direct  line  with  his  first  appearance.  Hurdis  got 
his  gun  in  readiness,  and  when  the  victim  came  within  its  reach 
he  raised  it  to  his  shoulder.  But  it  sank  again  a  moment  after 


THF   HEART    FAILS.  253 

The  muzzle  veered  to  and  fro,  as  a  leaf  in  the  wind.  He  could 
not  bring  the  sight  to  rest  upon  the  traveller.  Keen  was  the 
anguish  which  he  felt  when  he  brought  5*  'Town  to  the  eaitb  : 
and  it  was  in  desperate  resolve  that  he  ^«m  lifted  it. 

"It  must  be  done,"  he  said  to  himseJf — "there  IB  no  hope 
else.  My  life  or  his  —  shall  I  hesitate'  I  must  do  it— I  can 
not  miss  him  now." 

Again  the  instrument  of  death  was  uplifted  in  his  unwilling 
hands,  and  this  time  he  rested  it  upon  a  limb  of  the  tree,  which 
rose  directly  before  his  person. 

"  1  have  him  now.  It  is  but  fifty  yardo.  There  he  is  beside 
the  poplar!  Ila  !  what  is  this  —  where  is  he  —  I  can  not  see 
him  —  a  mist  is  before  my  eyes." 

A  mist  had  indeed,  overspread  £..".*;  jight.  His  straining  eyes 
were  full  of  water,  and  he  drew  ba^k  fiom  the  tube,  and  looked 
over  it  upon  the  road.  Still,  his  enemy  was  there.  Why  had 
he  not  seen  him  before?  He  would  have  resumed  his  aim,  but 
just  then  he  saw  the  eyes  of  the  emissary  turned  upward  uprn 
the  very  spot  where  he  stood.  Had  Le  been  seen  through  the 
bushes?  The  doubt  was  a  palsying  one.  and  he  shrunk  back 
in  terror,  and  listened  with  a  beating  heart  that  shook  in  his 
very  throat,  to  hear  the  steps  of  the  enemy  in  pursuit  of  him 
up  the  hill.  But  he  heard  nothing  and  was  emboldened  to  look 
again.  He  had  lost  one  chance.  The  emissary  had  rounded 
the  branch,  and  was  now  upo-i  the  other  end  of  the  trace  and 
going  from  him.  13ut  hin  V.^-k  was  now  turned  to  the  assassin, 
and  his  base  spirit  derive, I  strength  fiom  this  circumstance.  He 
felt  that  he  could  no!:  L-ivcj.  Jrann  a  trigger  upon  his  foe,  while 
he  looked  upon  his  fare,  lie  now  did  not  doubt  of  his  being 
able  to  execute  ihe  -f^ed.  His  arms  were  rigid  —  he  feit  that 
he  was  resolved.  'J";KJ,I  o  was  not  the  slightest  quiver  in  limb 
or  pube  ;  and  with  the,  confidence  of  assured  strength,  and  a 
tried  courage,  he  onoo  moic  lifted  the-  weapon.  Never  did  man 
take  better  aim  upon  his  f'o<i.  The  entire  back  of  the  slow 
moving  stranger  was  towird  him.  The  distance  was  small  for, 
in  rounding  the  branch,  the  traveller  had  approached,  rather 
than  receded  from,  ths  point  where  the  murderer  1>,  y  in  waiting. 
Cautiously,  but  firmly,  did  he  cock  the  weapon.  The  slight 
click  upon  his  own  ears,  was  startling,  and  before  he  could 


254  RICHARD    UURDIS. 

recover  from  the  start  win  h  it  liad  occasi'^r»Pil  hh"».  JMK!  while* 
lie  was  about  to  throv/  his  eyes  along  the,  banrl.  his  ui.invwh-ss 
purpose  was  again  defeated,  by  one  of  the  simplest  incidents  in 
the  world.  A  flock  of  partridges,  startled  by  the  tread  of  ri:<? 
horse,  Pew  up  f  :om  tin  roa-1-side,  at  the  very  feet  of  (lie  traveller. 
The  moment  had  paise'l.  The  victim  was  out  of  reach  before 
his  wretched  enemy  could  recover  his  resolution.  Desperate 
and  wild,  John  Hurdis  rushed  out  of  his  covert,  and  hall-way 
down  the  hill,  lie  world  have  cried  aloud  to  the  retreating 

O 

emissary.  lie  woiOd  have  defied  him  to  an  equal,  mortal  strug 
gle.  But  the  soul  was  wanting,  if  not  the  will.  The  sound 
died  away  in  his  husky  throat.  The  voice  stuck  —  the  tongue 
was  palsied.  The  imbecile  dropped  his  weapon,  and  sinking 
down  upon  the  grass  beside  it,  thrust  his  fingers  into  the  earth, 
and  moaned  aloud.  It  is  a  dreadful  misery  to  "feel  that  we  can 
confide  in  no  friend — that  we  can  trust  no  neighbor;  but  thifc 
sorrow  is  nothing  to  that  last  humiliating  conviction,  which  tells 
us  that  we  can  not  trust  ourselves.  That  our  muscles  will  fail 
us  in  the  trying  moment  —  that,  when  we  most  need  resolution, 
we  shall  find  none  within  oar  hearts.  That  our  nerves  shall  be 
unstrung  when  their  teneion  is  our  safety  —  that  our  tongue 
shall  refuse  its  office,  when  its  challenge  is  necessary  to  warm 
our  own  hearts,  and  alarm  those  of  our  enemies.  Conscious 
imbecility  next  to  conscious  guilt,  is  the  most  crushing  of  all 
mental  maladies.  To  look  upon  that  poor,  base  criminal  now, 
as  he  lies  upon  the  giass  —  his  lingers  stuck  into  the  sod  and 
fixed  there  —  his  jaws  wide,  and  tl.e  frothing  tongue  lolling  out 
and  motionless  —  big  drops  upon  hij  forehead  —  bigger  drops  in 
his  red  and  glassy  eyes  —  his  hair  soaked  by  the  sweat  of  his 
mental  agony,  and  fJl  his  limbs  without  life  —  and  we  should 
no  longer  hate,  but  pity  —  we  should  almost  forget  his  crime  in 
the  paralyzing  punishment  \vhich  followed  it.  But.  this  was 
not  the  limit  of  his  afflictions,  though,  to  the  noble  mind,  it 
must  appear  the  worst.  There  were  yet  other  tenors  in  store 
for  him.  lie  was  yet  to  learn,  even  IL  th:s  narrow  life,  that 
"  the  wages  of  sin  is  death." 


NAMELESS   TERRORS.  256 


CHAPTER   XXXVII, 

NAMELKSS    TERRORS. 

"Why  stand  you  thus  amazed?     Methinks  your  eyee 
%  Are  fixed  in  meditation  ;  and  all  here 

Seem  like  so  many  senseless  statues; 
As  if  your  souls  had  suffered  an  eclipse 
Betwixt  your  ju'lument  and  affections." — Woman  Hater. 

HOURS  elapsed  before  John  Kurd  is  arose  from  the  earth  upon 
which  he  had  thrown  himself,  overcome  by  the  mortification  of 
his  conscious  imbecility.  When  he  did  arise  he  was  like  one 
bewildered.  But  he  went  forward.  Stunned  and  staggering, 
he  went  forward  —  the  stains  of  the  soil  upon  his  face  and 
bands  —  his  gun  and  clothes  marked  also  with  the  proofs  of  his 
humiliation.  But  whither  should  he  go  ?  His  mind,  for  a  brief 
space,  took  no  heed  of  this  question.  He  wandered  on  without 
direction  from  his  thought ;  but,  with  an  old  habit,  he  wandered 
toward  the  dwelling  of  his  coadjutor,  Pickctt.  lie  was  par 
tially  awakened  from  his  stupor,  by  the  sounds  of  a  voice  — 
the  merry  voice  of  unheeding  childhood.  The  sounds  Mere 
familiar  —  they  half  recalled  him  to  himself — they  reminded 
him  where  he  was,  while  fully  impressing  upon  him  his  forlorn 
condition.  They  were  those  of  the  idiot  girl,  and  she  now 
came  bounding  toward  him  with  an  old  feeling  of  confidence 
But  ere  she  drew  nigh,  she  remembered  the  interview  with 
John  Hurdis,  in  which  her  mother  unexpectedly  became  a  party 
Without  knowing  why,  she  yet  well  enough  understood  that  her 
mother  found  fault  with  her  conduct  on  that  occasion,  and  the 
remembrance  served  to  arrest  her  forv.-ard  footsteps.  She  hung 
back  when  but.  a  few  feet,  iVoni  the  criminal ;  and  a  faint  cry 
escaped  her.  She  shrunk  f,-o;n  his  altered  appearance.  There 
is  no  form  of  idiocy,  wbi':!i  :-;-:ngs  with  it  an  utter  insensibility 


256  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

to  wo ;  and  never  was  wo  more  terribly  depicted  upon  liuman 
countenance,  than  it  was  then  OR  that  of  John  Ilurdis.  The  in 
voluntary  exclamation  and  spontaneous  speech  of  the  girl,  taught 
the  miserable  criminal,  who  had  hitherto  regarded  his  inner 
man  only,  to  give  a  moment's  consideration  to  his  outer  appear 
ance  ;  and  he  smiled,  with  a  sick  and  ghastly  smile,  to  behold 
the  clay-stains  upon  his  garments. 

"Oh,  Mr.  John,  what's  the  matter  —  what  have  you  been 
doing  to  yourself?  Look  at  your  clothes.  You've  tumbled  in 
the  ditch,  I  reckon." 

"Yes,  Jane,  yes;  I've  had  a  fall,  Jane  —  a  bad  fall.  But 
how  do  you,  Jane  ?  I  haven't  seen  you  for  a  very  long  time."  < 

"  'Most  a  week,  Mr.  John  ;  and  I've  been  wanting  to  see  vou 
too,  Mr.  John,  to  tell  *)u  all  about  the  strange  man  and  dad ; 
and  how  mother  was  frightened  so.  But  you're  hurt,  Mr.  John 
—  you've  got  a  bad  hurt,  I'm  sure,  or  you  wouldn't  look  so." 

John  Hurdis  thought  only  of  his  hurts  of  mind,  and  his  moral 
fall,  in  replying  to  the  idiot  in  the  affirmative-  ^-a  reply  which 
she  received  in  a  purely  literal  sense.  She  would  have  run  on 
in  a  strain  of  childish  condolence,  but  he  listened  to  her  impa 
tiently,  and,  at  length,  with  an  air  that  mortified  the  child  to 
'whom  he  had  always  looked  indulgence  only,  he  interrupted 
her  prattle,  and  bade  her  go  to  the  hovel  and  send  her  father 
to  him.  She  prepared  to  comply,  but  her  steps  were  slow,  and, 
looking  back  with  an  expression  of  mournful  dissatisfaction  on 
her  countenance,  awakened  Hurdis  to  a  more  considerate  feel 
ing.  Changing  his  tone  of  voice,  and  employing  a  few  kind 
words,  she  bounded  to  him  with  a  sudden  impulse,  caught  his 
hand,  kissed  it,  and  then,  like  a  nimble  deer,  bounded  away  in 
the  direction  of  the  hovel.  An  age  seemed  to  pass  away,  in 
the  mind  of  the  criminal,  ere  Pickett  came  in  obedience  to  his 
summons.  When  he  beheld  him  coming,  he  retired  into  the 
wood,  to  which  the  other  followed  him,  eagerly  asking,  as  he 
drew  nigh  — 

"Well,  'squire,  how  is't?  —  all  safe — all  done?" 

"Nothing's  done!"  was  the  reply.  "All's  lost  —  all!  Oh, 
Pickett !  I  am  the  most  miserable,  the  most  worthless  wretch 
alive.  My  heart  failed  me  at  the  very  moment.  My  hand  re 
fused  its  office — my  eyes,  my  limbs — all  denied  their  aid  to 


NAMELESS   TERRORS.  257 

rescue  me  from  tliis  accursed  bondage.  I  knew  it  would  be  so 
I  feared  it.  I  would  that  you  bad  done  it!  I  am  —  pity  met 
Ben  Pickett,  that  I  must  say  the  words  myself —  I  am  a  coward 
—  a  poor,  despicable  coward.  I  can  not  avenge  iuy  own  wrong, 
I  can  not  defend  my  own  life.  I  can  not  lift  my  aim,  though 
the  enemy  stands  threatening  before  me.  I  must  only  submit 
and  die." 

The  look  which  accompanied  these  words  —  the  looks  of 
mingled  frenzy  and  despair,  of  feebleness  and  passion  —  would 
beggar  all  attempt  at  description.  The  cheeks  of  the  wretched 
imbecile  were  white  —  whiter  than  the  marble  ;  his  eyes  glassy, 
almost  glazed  with  the  glaze  of  death  ;  his  mouth  was  open,  and 
remained  so  during  the  greater  part  of  their  conference  ;  and  a 
stupid  stare  which  he  fixed  upon  his  companion  while  the  latter 
spoke  in  reply,  was  far  from  attesting  that  attention  which  his 
ear  nevertheless  gave  to  his  utterance.  The  ii.i.-rior  yet  better- 
nerved  villain  absolutely  pitied,  and,  after  his  <••••  u  humble  fash 
ion,  endeavored  to  console  him  under  his  aiHir'-  MS.  But  words 
are  idle  to  him  who  has  need  of  deeds  which  he  dares  not  to 
perform  himself,  and  can  not  purchase  from  another.  It  was  a 
bitter  mockery  to  Ilurdis,  in  his  situation,  to  hear  the  common 
places  of  hope  administered  by  one  whom  guiit  and  ignorance 
alike  made  hopeless  as  a  teacher  of  others,  as  he  must  have 
been  in  his  own  case  hopeless.  After  hearing  all  that  Pickett 
could  say,  Ilurdis  was  only  conscious  of  increased  feebleness. 

"Go  home  with  me,  Ben  —  I  feel  so  weak  —  I  don't  think  I 
can  find  the  way  myself.  I  am  very  weak  and  vvretched.  Let 
me  take  your  arm." 

Pickett  complied,  and  relieving  him  from  the  gun,  the  weight 
of  which  was  oppressive  to  him  under  his  general  mental  and 
physical  prostration,  conducted  him  through  by-paths  to  his 
home.  Ere  they  reached  the  avenue,  he  gave  him  up  the  gun; 
and  finding  that  he  was  unable  to  confer  further,  though  wil 
ling,  upon  their  mutual  situation  and  necessities,  he  left  him, 
with  a  cold  exhortation  to  cheer  up  and  make  the  most  of  his 
misfortune.  The  other  heard  him  with  little  head  or  heed,  and 
in  the  solitude  of  his  own  chamber  endeavored  to  conceal  the 
marks  of  that  misery  which  he  was  only  now  beginning  to  dis 
cover  it  was  beyond  his  art  to  subdue. 


258  RICHARD    UUKDIS. 

But,  to  return  to  my  own  progress  while  these  events  wore 
passing.  It  will  he  remembered  that,  stunned  by  the  murder 
of  my  friend,  T  was  for  three  days  almost  incapable  of  thought 
or  action.  I  lingered  during  that  time  with  Colonel  Grniton, 
whose  own  kindness  and  that  of  his  happy  family  ministered 
unremittingly  to  the  sorrows  which  they  did  not  hope  to  stay. 
Aftor  that  time,  1  felt  the  necessity  of  action.  The  stunning 
sensations  occasioned  by  the  first  blow  were  now  over,  and  1 
begun  to  look  about  me  and  to  think. 

1  set  forward  on  my  way  homeward,  burdened  with  the  cruel 
story,  which  I  did  not  know  how  to  relate.  Nothing  but  a  pen 
knife  and  plain  gold  ring  of  William  Carriiigton  had  been  left 
untouched  by  his  robbers.  They  had  stripped  him  of  every 
thing  in  the  shape  of  arms  and  money.  The  knife  was  in  a 
vest-pocket,  and  was  probably  too  insignificant  for  appropria 
tion ;  the  ring  —  one  given  him  by  Emmeline  —  was  upon  a 
little  finger,  and  probably  escaped  their  notice,  or  was  too  tight 
for  instant  removal.  These  I  bore  with  me  back  —  sad  tokens 
of  what  I  could  not  bring.  Ilis  horse  they  had  taken  in  their 
flight  from  the  hovel,  and  probably  sold  the  next  day  in  the 
Choctaw  nation.  Mii-e  was  preserved  to  me  ;  as,  when  William 
fell,  and  he  felt  hiiir-elf  freed  from  all  restraint,  ho  naturally 
made  his  way  back  to  Colonel  Grafton's,  where  he  had  beer 
well  provided  for  the  night  before.  I  had,  indeed,  lost  nothing 
but  that  which  I  could  not  replace.  My  money  was  untouched 
in  my  saddle-bags,  and  even  that  which  I  had  about  my  person 
had  been  left  undisturbed.  It  is  true  I  had  concealed  it  in  a 
secret  pocket  of  my  coat,  but  they  had  not  even  offered  at  a 
search.  The  fl^ht  of  Carrington  had  too  completely  occupied 
their  mind?  at  first,  and  the  large  sum  which  they  found  upon 
hiij  person  had  subsequently  too  fully  answered  their  expecta 
tions  to  render  it  important,  in  their  hurry,  that  they  should 
waste  time  in  examining  me.  Perhaps,  too,  they  may  have  re 
garded  William  us  the  purse-bearer  for  both.  Whatever  may 
have  been  the  cause  of  their  neglect,  1  was  certainly  no  loser 
of  anything  with  which  I  had  at  first  set  out.  And  yet  how 
dreadful  was  the  loss  which  I  had  to  relate !  how  could  I  relate 
it  1  how  name  to  the  poor  girl,  looking  for  her  lover,  any  one 
of  the  cruel  woi  Is  which  must  teach  her  that  she  looked  foi 


NAMELESS   TERRORS.  259 

him  in  vain  ?  Thu  was  n:y  continu;;!  thought  as  I  travelled 
homeward.  I  had  no  other.  It  ham. ted  me  with  a  continual 
questioning,  and  tlie  difficulty  of  speech  seemed  to  increase  with 
the  delay  to  answer  it,  and,  before  1  had  answered  it,  I  reached 
home. 

The  very  first  person  I  encountered  was  John  Ilurdis.  I 
approached  him  unawares.  lie  was  walking  from  me,  and  tow 
ard  the  house.  1  had  dismissed  from  my  bosom  all  feeling  of 
hostility  ;  for,  since  the  murder  of  William,  it  seemed  to  me  that 
all  my  old  hates  and  prejudices  were  feeble.  They  were  all 
swallowed  up  and  forgotten  in  th.-it  greater  sorrow.  So  com 
pletely  had  this  become  the  case  that,  though,  at  leaving  him 
but  a  week  before,  I  should  have  only  spoken  to  him  in  curses, 
1  DOW  bpoke  to  him  in  kindness.  My  speech  seemed  to  con 
found  him,  no  less  than  his  conduct,  on  hearing  it,  confounded 
me.  As  I  have  said,  he  was  walking  from  me  in  the  road  lead 
ing  up  to  the  avenue.  He  had  nearly  reached  the  entrance, 
Mid  was  so  completely  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts,  that  the 
he-rtd  of  my  horse  provoked  none  of  his  attention.  I  called  to 
him,  and  1  am  sure  that  my  voice  could  not  have  been  made 
more  studiously  unoffending. 

'•  Well,  John,  how  are  you  —  how  are  all  ?" 

"John  —  John  !"  he  exclaimed,  turning  round,  and  staring  at 
me  with  a  face  full  of  unspeakable  agitation.  ""Who's  that? 
what  do  you  mean?  what  do  you  want  with  me  ?  ha  !" 

**  Why,  what's  the  matter  with  you,  John  ?"  I  cried  ;  "  what 
frightens  you  ?  —  don't  you  know  me  ?" 

"  Know  you  ?  yes,  yes  —  1  know  you  ;"  and  his  face  and  move 
ments  both  indicated  a  strong  disposition  on  his  part  to  fly  from 
me,  but  that  his  trembling  limbs  refused  to  assist  him. 

"Why  do  you  shrink  from  me?"  I  asked,  thinking  that  all 
his  agitation  arose  from  our  previous  quarrel,  and  the  fear  that 
I  was  seeking  some  opportunity  of  personal  collision  with  him. 
"  Why  do  you  shrink  from  me,  John  Ilurdis  ?  I  am  not  angry 
with  you  now  ;  I  do  not  seek  to  harm  you.  Be  yourself,  broth 
er,  for  God's  sake,  and  tell  me  how  the  old  folks  are :  how's 
mother  ?" 

He  saw  me  alight  from  my  horse,  which  I  did  at  this  moment, 
and  approach  him.  without  being  able  to  give  me  any  answer 


260  RICHARD    HURDI3. 

When,  however,  I  had  got  alongside  of  him,  he  enforced  hiiu 
self  to  speech,  but  without  replying  to  my  question. 

"And  what  brings  you  back?  How  did  you  —  I  mean,  you 
have  come  back  safely  ?" 

"Ay,  I  am  safe,"  was  my  answer  ;  "  but,  truth  to  say,  brother 
John,  you  do  not  seem  to  know  exactly  what  you  mean.  What ! 
you  are  still  angry  about  the  old  business  ?  but  you  are  wrong 
It  is  for  me  to  be  angry,  if  anybody  ;  but  I  am  not  angry — I 
have  forgiven  you.  Tell  me,  then,  are  the  old  people  well?" 

"  They  are  !"  was  his  only  and  brief  answer  ;  and  I  got  noth 
ing  from  him  but  plain  yes  and  no,  while  we  moved  along  to 
gether  to  the  house.  He  was  evidently  overcome  with  aston 
ishment  and  fear.  I  knew  him  to  be  timid  ;  but,  at  that  time, 
ignorant  as  I  was  then  of  the  history  which  has  been  already 
related,  I  found  it  difficult  to  account  for  his  imbecility.  It  wag 
easily  understood  afterward.  But  even  then  I  looked  on  him 
with  pity,  mixed  with  scorn,  as,  shrinking  and  silent,  he  moved 
along  beside  me.  Guilty  or  not,  I  would  not  have  had  in  my 
bowmi  such  >  soul  as  his  for  all  creation. 


THE    BilOKKX    IIEAUT. 


CHAPTER    XXXV  II  J. 

THK    r.HOKHA'    HEART. 


-Hold!  Holill 

Oh.  stop  that  epoody  messenger  of  death, 
Oh,  let  him  not  run  down  thai  narrow  path, 
Which  loads  unto  thy  heart."  —  SATIRO  MASTIC. 

MY  unexpected  return,  of  course,  brought  the  f-u^ly  together 
John  Hurdib  could  not  well  be  absent,  and  lie  was  a  pale  and 
silent  listener  to  my  melancholy  narrative.  The  story  was 
soon  told,  a/id  a  dumb  horror  seized  upon  all.  1  saw  that  lie 
was  palsied  —  that  ho  shivered  —  that  a  spasmodic  emotion  had 
fastened  upon  all  his  limbs,  but,  even  liB.d  ho  not  be<-n  guilty, 
such  emotion,  at  such  a  narrative,  would  have  been  natural 
enough.  Tie  rose  to  leave  the  room,  but  staggered  in  such  a 
manner  that  he  was  forced  once  more  to  take  his  seat.  My  ac 
count  of  th<-1  murder  had  confirmed  the  story  of  the  emissary. 
lie  had  a  vain,  vague  hope  before,  that  the  clan  —  the  mystic 
confederacy—  was  a  fable  of  the  stranger,  got  up  for  purposes 
yet  unexplained,  or,  if  true,  that  its  purposes  and  power  had 
been  alike  exaggerated.  The  history  of  my  seiz-are,  and  of 
the  pursuit  of  William  Carrington,  however,  was  attended  with 
so  many  circumstances  of  bold  atrocity,  that  he  could  deceive 
himself  no  longer  as  to  the  strength  and  audacity  of  the  clan. 
Still,  his  guilty  soul  could  draw  some  consolation,  even  from  a 
fate  so  dreadful.  He  breathed  with  more  freedom,  when  he 
found  that  I  unhesitatingly  ascribed  the  murder  of  my  friend  to 
the  robbers,  and  had  no  suspicion  in  any  other  quarter.  II  in 
own  common  sense  sufficiently  taught  him  that  such  a  belief 
was  the  most  reasonable  and  natural  to  one  who  did  nc  know 
the  truth  ;  and  with  a  consciousness  of  increased  security,  from 
.—  o  quarter  at  least,  he  did  not  afflict  himself  much  with  the 


262  RICHARD  HURDIS. 

reflection  that  he  hail  been  the  murderer  d  one  unoffending 
person,  and  the  cruel  destroyer  of  another's  dearest  hopes.  So 
long  as  he  was  himself  safe,  these  considerations  were  of  small 
importance.  And,  yet  let  us  not  suppose  that  they  did  not 
trouble  him.  lie  had  not  slept  in  peace  from  the  moment  that 
he  Despatched  Pickett  on  his  bloody  mission.  He  was  doomed 
Ti«'.ver  to  sleep  in  peace  again  —  no,  nor  to  wake  in  peace. 
Forms  of  threatening  followed  his  footsteps  by  day.  and  images 
ft  U-rror  haunted  his  dreams  by  night.  lie  might  escape  from 
»•  unan  justice,  but  he  soon  felt  how  idle  was  any  hope  to  escape 
'Vom  that  worst  presence  of  all — the  constant  consciousness  of 
crime. 

1ml  I  must  not  forget  my  own  troubles  in  surveying  those  of 
John  Unrdis.  Of  his  woes  I  had  no  thought  at  this  moment. 
.My  only  thought  was  of  that  fearful  interview  with  l^rnmcline. 
What  would  I  not  have  given  could  JL  nave  escaped  it.  But 
such  wishes  wore  foolish  enough.  I  had  undertaken  the  task, 
regarding  it  as  A  solemn  duty,  as  well  to  the  dead  as  f,;>  '..he 
livng,  and,  sooner  or  later,  the  task  was  to  be  exeeuicvl.  IV;- 
Iriy  was  proof  of  weakness;  and  f.hat  afternoon  L  set  out  fcr  i.hp, 
nuuse  of  rhu  poor  maiden,  widowed  ere  a  wife.  During  t'-.e 
solitary  ride,  I  thought  in  vain  of  the  words  whi^K  I  £l-ould  -i.  e 
in  telling  her  tho  story.  JIow  should  I  break  iid  abfiptne^s- - 
how  soften  tho  severity  of  the  stroke.  The  more  I  Bought  of 
this  —  as  is  most  usually  the  case  in  such  mattc'Vn  vv.h  most 
persons  —  the  more  difficult  and  impracticable  did  ir  a  labor  seem 
and,  but  for  thw  shame  of  such  a  movement,  I  coul \  h--\\e  turned 
my  bridle,  and  trusted  to  a  letter  to  <i<>  that,  which  I  felt  it  im 
possible  that  my  lips  should  do  well.  I  had  ee^u  > :*oK,;n3rs, 
otherwise  sagacioT  B  enough,  undertake  i<>  conso'o  */:  f>  afflicted, 
by  trite  maxims  -vhich  tauglit  them  —  -*rnr.^f)v  .-,  ir  ;.gb  —  to 
forbear  g;rief  f<-i  he  very  reiiHon  which  iiri'x^,  t'jem  grieve  — 
namely,  because  their  loss  ia  irreparable  "  Your  tears  are 
vain,"  says  the  bookman.  "  Thereib:.-f,  1  wvep,"  replies  thr 
•j'an.  How  to  avoid  such  wanton  folly  was  the  question  with 
me,  yet  it  was  a  question  not  so  easy  to  answer.  The  mind 
runs  upon  commonplaces  in  the  matter  of  human  consolation, 
and  we  prate  of  resignation  to  the  end  of  the  chapter  to  those 
who  never  hear  us.  This,  of  course,  assumes  the  grief  to  be 


THE   BROKEN    HEART.  2C3 

sincere.  There  is  a  conventional  sort  of  sorrow  which  is  re 
lieved  by  conventional  language ;  and  the  heir  finds  obedience 
to  the  will  of  Providence  a  very  natural  lesson.  But  the  lovd 
of  Emmeline  Walker  seemed  to  me  a  thing  all  earnestness.  I 
had  seen  enough  of  her  to  know  that  she  could  freely  have 
risked  life  for  William  Carrington  —  to  tell  her  thai  no  risk  of 
life  could  save  him  UOAV,  I  felt  convinced  would  almost  be  at 
the  peril  of  hers.  Yet  the  irksome  labor  must  be  taken  —  the 
risk  must  be  met.  I  had  that  sort  of  pride  which  always  sent 
me  forward  when  the  trial  appeared  a  great  one;  and  the  very 
extremity  of  the  necessity,  awakened  i.  me  an  intensity  of 
feeling,  which  enabled  me  to  effect  my  object.  And  I  did  ef 
fect  it  —  how,  it  will  be  seen  hereafter.  Enough,  that  I  shared 
deeply  in  the  suffering  I  was  unavoidably  compelled  to  inflict. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  I  reached  her  dwelling.  My  prog 
ress  toward  it  had  been  slow,  yef.  I  felt  it  too  fast  for  my 
feelings.  I  entered  the  house  with  th.?,  desperate  haste  of  one 
who  distrusts  his  own  resolution,  and  leaps  forward  in  order 
that  it  may  not  leave  him.  My  task  was  increased  in  diiliculty 
by  the  manner  in  which  Emmeline  met  me.  The  happy  heart, 
confident  in  its  hope,  shone  out  in  her  kindling  eye,  and  in  the 
buoyant  tones  of  her  voice. 

"  All,  Mr.  Hurdis,  back  so  soon  !  I  did  not  look  for  you  for 
a  whole  month.  What  brought  you  — -but  why  do  1  ask,  when 
1  can  guess  so  readily  ]  Havo  you  setva  Mary  yet  ?" 

While  she  spoke,  her  eyes  peered  behind  me  as  if  seeking 
for  another;  and  the  pleasant  and  arch  smile  which  accompa 
nied  her  words,  was  mingled  with  a  look  of  fondest  expectation 
I  could  not  answer  her  —  I  could  not  look  upon  her  when  I  be 
held  this  glance.  I  went  forward  to  a  chair,  and  sank  down 
within  it. 

She  arose  and  came  hurriedly  toward  me. 

'•What  is  the  matter--  are  you  sick,  Mr.  Hurdis?" 

And,  though  approaching  me,  her  eyes  reverted  to  the  en 
trance  as  if  still  seeking  another.  Involuntarily,  I  shook  my 
head  as  if  in  denial.  She  saw  the  movement  and  seemed  tc 
comprehend  it.  Quick  as  lightning,  she  demanded  — 

"You  come  qlone  ?  —  Whero's  William  —  where'o  Mr.  (Jar 
rington  ?" 


264  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

"  He  did  not  come  with  me,  Emmcline.     He  could  not." 

"Ha!  could  not — could  not!  Tell  me  why  he  could  not 
corns,  Mr.  Hurdis.  He  is  sick!  —  where  did  you  leave  him? 
He  is  ill,  perhaps  —  dangerously  ill.  Tell  me  —  speak,  Richard 
Hurdis  —  yo^r  ^.ooks  frighten  me." 

"Thsy  ohculd:  Emmeline." 

I  could  not  th'jn  speak  more.  My  face  was  averted  from 
her.  Trembling  with  half-suppressed  emotion,  she  hastened  to 
confront  me.  Her  voice  grew  thick  and  hoarse  as  she  again 
spoke. 

•'  Yon  have  come  for  me,  Richard.  You  have  come  for  me 
to  go  to  him.  He  mus:  be  ill,  indeed,  when  he  sends  for  me. 
I  will  go  to  him  at  oncj  —  let  us  set  out  instantly.  Where  did 
you  leave  him  ?  Is  it  far  ?" 

I  availed  myself  of  t1  e  assistance  which  she  thus  furnished 
me,  and  replied  — 

"Near  Tusealocca — p,  two  days' journey." 

"  Then  the  less  time  ha\  3  we  to  spare,  Richard.  Let  us  go 
at  once.  I  fear  not  to  travel  by  night — I  have  done  it  before 
Brt  tell  me,  Mr,  Hurdis,  what  is  his  sickness.  From  what  does 
be  suffer  T 

"An  accident  —  a  hurt." 

"Ha!  a  Irirt—" 

"  A  wound !" 

"  God  be  merciful  —  a  wound  —  a  /vound.  Out  with  it,  Rich 
ard  Hurdie,  and  tell  me  all,  if  you  be  a  man.  I  am  a  woman, 
it  is  true,  but  I  can  bear  the  worfft,  rather  than  the  doubt 
which  apprehends  it.  How  came  he  by  a  wound  —  how  was 
he  hurt  —  what  accident?'' 

"  He  was  shot !" 

"Shot!  shot!  By  what — by  whom?  Tell  me,  Richard, 
dear  Richard  —  his  friend  —  my  fr'end — tell  me  not  that  he  is 
hurt  dangerously  —  that  he  will  recover  —  that  there  are  hopes. 
Tell  me,  tell  me,  if  you  love  me  ar.i  would  have  me  live." 

I  shook  my  head  mournfully.  Her  hand  grasped  my  arm, 
and  her  gripe  though  trembling,  was  firm  as  steel. 

"You  do  not  say  it  —  you  can  not  tell  me,  Richard  —  that  his 
wound  is  mortal.  That,  VViUi;«in —  1  can  not  think  it — I  dare 
not,  though  you  may  tell  me  s«-  -  tint  he  will  die  1" 


THE   BROKEN    HEART. 

"Be  calm,  awhile,  dear  Emmeline,  and  hear  me."  I  an 
swered  retreatingly,  while  I  took  her  hand,  with  which  she  still 
continued  to  grasp  my  arm,  in  my  own.  She  released  her  hold 
instantly. 

"  There  !  I  am  calm.  I  am  patient.  I  listen.  Speak  now, 
Richard  —  fear  not  for  me,  but  tell  me  what  I  must  hear,  and 
what,  if  my  apprehensions  he  true,  I  shall  never  he  hotter  pre 
pared  to  hear  than  now.  William  Carrington  is  hurt  —  by  an 
accident  you  say.  He  sends  for  me.  Well  —  I  will  go  to  him 

—  go  this  instant.     But  you  have  not  told  me  that  there  is  hope 

—  that  he  is  not  dangerously  —  not  mortally  hurt.     Tell  me 
that.     It  is  for  that  I  wait." 

Wonderful  woman  !  She  had  recovered  her  stature  —  her 
firmness  —  her  voice  —  all,  in  a  single  instant.  And  never  had 
she  looked  so  beautiful  as  now,  when  her  eyes  wore  shining 
with  a  fearful  light  —  when  doubt  and  apprehension  had  im 
parted  to  their  natural  fire,  an  expression  of  wildness,  such  as 
the  moon  shows  when  mocked  on  her  march,  by  clouds,  that 
flit  over  her  disk,  yet  leave  no  iinpri-sssion  on  its  surface  — 
when  her  small  and  rosy  mouth,  the  lips  slightly  parted,  and 
occasionally  quivering,  exhibited  the  emotion,  which  she  was 
only  able  to  subdue  by  assuming  one  of  a  higher  character,  «tnd 
putting  on  the  aspect  of  command.  Full,  finely  formed  in  per 
son,  with  a  carriage  in  which  grace  and  dignity  seemed  twins, 
neither  taking  precedence  of  the  other,  but  both  harmoniously 
co-operating,  the  one  to  win,  the  other  to  sway ;  she  seemed, 
indeed,  intended  by  nature  to  command.  And  she  did  command. 
Seeing  that  I  hesitated,  she  repeated  her  injunction  to  me  to 
proceed  ;  but  with  a  voice  and  words  that  evidently  proved  her 
to  have  lost  some  of  her  most  sanguine  liQpes,  by  reason  of  my 
reluctant  and  hesitating  manner. 

"  Tell  me  one  thing  only  —  tell  me  that  I  am  in  time  to  see 
him  !  That  he  will  not  be  utterly  lost  —  that  I  may  again  hear 
his  voice  —  that  he  may  hear  mine  —  that  I  may  tell  him  I  come 
to  be  with  him  to  the  last  —  if  need  be,  to  die  with  him.  Say, 
Richard  —  say,  my  brother,  for  he  called  you  his  —  say  that  I 
will  be  in  time  for  this." 

My  answer  was  spokrn  ,•;!:!;«>!  \\ltl:. mi  n:y  u\vu  consciousness, 
and  it  seemed  as  instantaneously,  to  deprive  her  of  all  hers. 


266  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

"  You  will  not  r 

With  one  wild,  piercing  shriek,  she  rent  the  air,  while  tossing 
her  arms  above  her  head,  she  rushed  out  of  the  room  and  into 
the  passage.  Then  I  heard  a  dead,  heavy  fall ;  and,  rushing 
after  her,  I  found  her  prostrate  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  a? 
utterly  lifeless  as  if  a  cleaving  holt  had  been  driven  through 
her  heart. 


THE  MANIAC.  267 


CHAPTER   XXXIX, 

THE    MANIAC. 

What!  thou  hast  fled  his  side  in  time  of  danger, 

That  clung  to  him  in  fortune  1 

Oh !  cruel  treachery ;  he  had  not  done  thee 

So  foul  a  wrong  as  this.     Away,  and  leave  me." — TJie  Paragon. 

I  FOLLOWED  her  with  all  haste  and  raised  her  from  the  floor 
My  cries  brought  her  mother  to  her  assistance  —  a  venerable 
and  worthy  dame,  whom  years  and  disease  had  driven  almost 
entirely  to  her  chamber.  She  received  her  daughter  at  my 
hands  in  an  almost  lifeless  condition.  I  assisted  in  bearing  the 
poor  maiden  to  her  room ;  and  after  giving  the  mother  a  brief 
account  of  what  had  taken  place  —  for  the  circumstances  of  the 
scene  would  admit  of  no  more  —  I  left  her  for  my  father's  habi 
tation.  I  shall  not  undertake  to  describe  my  misery  that  night. 
The  thought,  that,  in  my  want  of  resolution,  my  haste,  my  im 
perfect  judgment,  I  had  given  a  death-stroke  to  the  poor  heart 
that  I  had  seen  so  paralyzed  in  a  single  instant  before  my  eyes, 
was  little  less  than  horrible  to  me.  It  was  a  constant  and  stalk 
ing  terror  in  my  eyes.  In  my  dreams,  I  beheld  the  bloody 
body  of  William  Carrington,  and  the  lifeless  form  of  Emrneline 
beside  it,  stretched  out  in  the  same  damp,  cold  bed  of  death. 
It  I  awakened,  my  active  fancy  represented  a  thousand  similar 
objects — familiar  forms  lying  and  gasping  in  all  the  agonies  of 
dissolution,  or  crouching  in  terror,  as  if  beneath  some  sudden 
bolt  or  blow.  In  all  these  visions  I  never  lost  sight  of  the 
living  and  real  scene  of  misery  through  which  I  had  so  recently 
gone.  At  first,  the  smiling,  hopeful  face  of  Emmeline  rose 
before  me  ;  and  I  could  distinguish  the  devoted  1  /ve  in  the  look 
that  asked  after  her  betrothed,  when  her  lips  refused  all  ques 
tion.  Then  rose  the  wonder  why  he  came  not — then  the  doubf 


2 '18  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

—  then  the  fear  —  the  terror  next;  and,  lastly,  the  appalling 
jn id  thunder-riving  blow,  which  hurled  her  to  the  ground  in  a 
stupor  scarcely  less  felt  and  freezing  than  was  that  which  had 
stricken  down  her  lover,  and  from  which  he  could  never  more 
awake.  Was  it  better  that  she  should  awake  ?  Could  the  light 
•t'  returning  life,  be  grateful  to  her  eyes?  Impossible!  The 
heart  which  had  been  so  suddenly  overthrown,  was  never 
destined  to  know  any  other  than  the  consciousness  of  sorrow. 
There  was  no  light  in  life  for  her.  The  eyes  might  kindle,  and 
the  lips  might  wear  a  smile,  in  after  days,  even  as  the  tree 
which  the  wanton  axe  of  the  woodman  has  wounded,  will  some 
times  put  forth  a  few  sickly  buds  and  imperfect  branches.  But 
these  do  not  speak  for  life  always.  The  life  of  the  soul  is 
wanting  —  carried  off  by  untimely  sap.  The  heart  is  eaten  out 
and  gone,  and  when  the  tree  falls,  which  it  does  when  the  night 
is  at  the  stillest,  men  wonder  of  what  disease  it  perished. 
The  natural  world  abounds  in  similitudes  for  humanity,  which 
it  is  our  misfortune,  perhaps,  too  unfrequently  to  regard. 

The  next  day,  to  my  surprise,  I  was  sent  for,  by  Emmeline. 
[  had  not  thought  it  possible  she  should  recover  in  so  short  a 
time  —  she  was,  it  seems,  resolved,  to  hear  all  the  dreadful  par 
ticulars  of  my  narrative ;  and  strove,  with  wonderful  energy,  to 
listen  to  them  calmly.  Her  words  were  subdued  almost  to  a 
whisper,  and  uttered  as  if  measured  by  the  stopwatch.  I  could 
see  that  the  tension  of  her  mind  was  doing  her  but  little  good. 
That  she  was  overtasking  herself,  and  exhausting  the  hoarded 
strength  of  years,  to  meet  the  emergency  of  a  moment.  I  im 
plored  her  to  wait  but  a  day,  before  she  required  the  intelli 
gence  she  wished.  I  pleaded  my  own  mental  suffering  in  ex 
cuse  ;  but  to  this,  she  simply  answered,  by  touching  her  head 
with  her  finger,  and  smiling  in  such  a  sort,  as  if  to  rebuke  me 
for  arrogating  to  myself  a  greater  degree  of  feeling  and  suffer 
ing  than  was  hers.  I  could  not  refuse,  and  yet,  I  trembled  to 
comply  with  her  demand.  I  shuddered  as  I  thought  upon  the 
probable — nay,  the  almost  certain — consequences  of  evil  which 
must  follow  to  her  life,  from  the  recital.  Her  features  denoted 
a  latent  war  in  the  mind,  which  my  details,  like  the  spark  to 
the  combustible,  I  felt  sure,  must  bring  about  an  explosion  no 
luss  terrible  than  sudden.  Her  eyes  were  bloodshot  and  dry— 


THE   MANIAC.  269 

without  a  sign  of  moisture.  ITad  they  heen  wet,  I  should  have 
been  more  free  to  speak.  Her  checks  were  singularly  pale ; 
but  in  the  very  centre  of  her  forehead,  there  was  a  small  spot 
of  livid  red  —  at  almost  purple  spot  —  that  seemed  like  a  warn 
ing  beacon,  fired  of  a  sudden  in  sign  of  an  approaching  danger. 
I  took  her  hand  in  mine,  as  I  sat  down  by  the  couch  on  which 
she  lay,  and  found  it  cold  and  dry.  There  was  little,  if  any, 
pulse,  at  that  moment.  It  was  not  long  after,  however,  when  it 
bounded  hotly  beneath  my  finger,  like  a  blazing  arrow,  sent 
suddenly  from  the  bended  bow. 

"And  mnsr,"  she  said,  "  now  that  I  am  calm,  Richard  —  I  can 
hear  all  that  you  have  to  say  —  yon  need  not  be  afraid  to  speak 
to  me  now,  since  the  worst  is  known." 

"  You  have  heard,  then,  from  your  mother  ?"  I  asked  affirm 
atively. 

"Yes,  I  have  heard  all  —  1  have  heard  that  he  is  — "  here 
she  interrupted  the  sentence  by  a  sudden  pause,  which  was 
followed  by  a  long  parenthesis.  "  You  will  now  see  how  strong 
1  have  become1,  when  you  hear  the  words  that  I  can  calmly 
speak  —  know  then,  that  you  can  tell  me  nothing  worse  than  I 
already  know.  I  know  that  he  is  dead,  to  whom  I  had  given 
myself,  and  whom  —  I  repeat  it  to  you,  Richard,  as  his  friend 
—  and  whom,  as  heaven  is  my  witness,  I  most  truly  loved." 

"I  believe  it  —  I  know  it,  Emmelinc ;  and  he  knew  it  too.'* 

"  Did  he  ?  —  are  you  sure  he  knew  it  ?"  she  asked,  putting  her 
hand  upon  my  arm,  as  she  spoke  these  words  in  a  tone  of  ap 
pealing  softness.  "Ah,  Richard,  could  I  know  that  he  felt  this 
conviction  to  the  last —  could  I  have  been  by  to  have  heard  him 
avow  it  —  to  have  laid  bare  my  heart  before  him  —  to  have  lis 
tened  to  the  last  words  in  which  he  received  and  returned  my 
affections  !  Oh,  those  last  words  !  those  last  words  !  Let  me 
hear  them  ?  What  were  they  ?  It  is  for  this  I  sent  for  you  to 
come.  It  is  those  words  that  I  would  hear  !  Tell  me,  then, 
Richard,  and  set  rny  heart  at  rest  —  give  peace  to  my  mind, 
and  relieve  me  from  this  anxiety  !  What  said  he  at  the  last  — 
\\\\:\.l  said  he?" 

"  AVill  it  relieve  you]  1  fear  not,  Emmeline  —  .1  fear  it  woald 
only  do  you  harm  to  listen  to  such  matters  now.  You  corld  not 
bear  it  now," 


270  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

"Not  bear  it!  Have  I  not  heard  all  —  have  I  not  borne  the 
worst?  What  more  can  you  have  to  say  to  distress  me?  I 
tell  you,  I  know  that  he  is  dead  !  I  know  that  I  shall  speak 
to  him  no  more  —  that  I  can  never  hear  his  voice  in  answer  tc 
mine !  For  him,  I  might  as  well  be  dumb  as  he !  You  see 
now,  that  I  can  speak  the  words  which  yesterday  you  could 
not  speak  !  What,  then,  have  you  to  fear?  Nothing  —  noth 
ing  !  Begin  then,  Richard  —  begin,  my  brother,  and  tell  me  the 
particulars  of  this  cruel  story.  It  will  be  a  consolation,  though 
a  sad  one,  to  know  the  history  of  the  sorrow  that  afflicts  me." 

"  Sad  consolation,  indeed,  Knmieline,  if  any,  but  I  will  not 
believe  that  it  can  be  a  consolation  now.  Some  time  hence, 
when  you  have  learned  calmly  to  look  upon  your  loss,  and  be 
come  reconciled  to  your  privation,  I  doubt  not  that  you  will  re 
ceive  a  melancholy  satisfaction  from  a  knowledge  of  the  truth 
But  I  do  not  think  that  it  will  benefit  you  now.  On  the  con 
trary,  I  fear  that  it  will  do  you  infinite  harm.  You  are  not 
well  —  there  is  a  flushed  spot  upon  your  brow  which  shows 
your  blood  to  be  in  commotion  ;  to-morrow,  perhaps — " 

"  No  to-morrow,  Richard  !  all  days  are  alike  to  me  now  !  I 
am  already  in  the  morrow  —  the  present  is  not  mine  —  I  live  in 
the  past,  or  in  the  future,  or  I  live  not  at  all !  Let  me,  then, 
hear  from  you  now  —  let  me  know  all  at  once  —  now,  while  the 
cup  is  at  the  fullest,  let  me  drink  to  the  bottom,  and  not  take 
successive  and  hourly  draughts  of  the  same  bitter  potion !  1 
must  hear  it  from  you  now,  Richard,  without  delay  or  evasion, 
or,  I  tell  you,  I  can  not  sleep  again  !  If  I  do,  it  will  only  be 
to  dream  a  thousand  things,  and  conjure  up  a  thousand  fancies, 
much  more  terrible  than  any  you  can  bring  me  now  !  Come, 
then  !  why  should  you  fear  to  tell  me,  when  I  already  know 
the  worst  ?  I  know  that  he  perished  by  the  sudden  stroke  of 
the  murderer,  having  no  time  given  him  for  prayer  and  prepa 
ration  !  Can  your  story  tell  rne  worse  than  this?  No,  no !  you 
have  no  words  of  darker  meaning  in  my  ears,  than  those  which 
my  own  lips  have  spoken  !" 

"Emmeline,  dear  Emmiline,  let  me  have  time  for  this.  Let 
me  put  it  off  for  a  while.  Already  the  blood  is  rising  impetu 
ously  in  your  veins.  Your  pulse  beneath  rny  finger  is  shooting 
wildly—" 


THE   MANIAC.  271 

"I  am  calm  —  you  mistake,  clear  Richard — you  are  no  doc 
tor,  clearly.  I  was  never  more  calm  —  never  more  composed 
in  all  my  life.  My  pulse,  indeed  !" 

The  impatient  and  irritable  manner  of  this  speech,  was  its 
sufficient  refutation.  I  replied — 

"  Your  will  is  calm  and  resolute,  Emmeline ;  I  doubt  not 
your  strength  of  mind  and  purpose ;  but  I  doubt  your  com 
mand  of  nerve,  Emmeline,  and  your  blood.  You  are  very  fe 
verish." 

She  interrupted  me  almost  petulantly. 

"  You  are  only  too  considerate,  Richard.  Perhaps,  had  you 
been  half  so  considerate,  when  a  fellow-traveller  with  the  man 
you  called  your  friend,  and  who  certainly  was  yours,  he  had  not 
perished  !" 

"  Emmeline !" 

"Ay!  I  speak  what  I  think,  Richard  —  what  I  feel!  You 
are  a  grave  physician  when  with  me.  You  talk  sagely  and 
shake  your  head.  But  with  him  —  with  William  Carrington  ! 
—  were  you  grave,  and  wise,  and  considerate?  You  persuaded 
him  to  this  journey  ;  you  knew  that  he  was  hasty  and  thought 
less  ;  did  you  shake  your  head  in  warning,  and  lift  your  finger 
when  you  saw  him  running  wide  from  prudence  —  from  safety?" 

"  Emmeline,  my  child,"  exclaimed  the  mother,  "  you  are  un 
kind —  you  do  Richard  injustice!" 

"  Let  him  show  me  that  I  do  him  injustice,  mother.  That  is 
what  I  wish  him,  and  pray  him,  to  do.  I  do  not  desire  to  do 
him  injustice."  Her  tone  and  manner,  which  were  almost  vio 
lent  before,  now  changed  even  into  softness  here ;  and,  turning 
to  me,  she  continued :  "  You  know  I  do  not  wish  to  do  you  in 
justice  ;  but  why  will  you  not  oblige  me  ?  Why  not  tell  me 
what  I  claim  to  know  —  what  I  have  a  right  to  know?" 

I  could  see  that  the  blood  was  mounting  in  torrents  to  her 
brain.  Her  pulse  was  momently  quickening ;  and  the  little 
speck  of  red,  so  small  and  unimposing  at  first,  had  overspread 
her  face,  even  as  the  little  cloud,  that  dots  the  western  heavens 
at  morning,  spreads  by  noon  until  it  covers  with  storm  and 
thunder  the  whole  bosom  of  the  earth.  It  was  more  than  ever 
my  policy  to  withhold  a  narrative  so  full  of  details,  which, 
though  they  could  unfold  no  circumstance  worse  in  substance 


272  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

tli an  that  which  she  already  knew,  were  yet  almost  certain  to 
harrow  up  her  feelings  by  the  gradual  accumulation  of  events 
before  her  imagination,  to  a  pitch  almost  unendurable.  I  re 
sorted  to  every  argument,  plea,  suggestion  —  everything  which 
might  move  her  to  forego  her  wish  —  at  least,  for  the  present. 
But  my  efforts  were  unavailing. 

"You  entirely  mistake  me,"  she  would  say,  "  I  am  earnest  — 
not  excited.  My  earnestness  always  shows  itself  in  this  man 
ner.  I  assure  you  that  my  blood  is  quite  as  temperate  as  it 
would  be  under  the  most  ordinary  affliction." 

And  this  she  said  in  words  that  were  uttered  with  spasmodic 
effort.  Her  mother  called  me  aside  for  a  moment. 

"  You  will  have  to  tell  her,"  she  said ;  "  the  very  opposition 
to  her  desire  makes  her  worse.  Tell  her  all,  Richard,  as  she 
demands  it,  and  Cod  send,  that  it  be  for  the  best!" 

Thinking  it  probable  that  such  might  be  the  case,  though 
still  reluctant,  I  waived  my  objections,  and  determined  to  com 
ply.  When  I  resumed  my  seat  by  the  bedside,  and  avowed 
this  determination,  as  if  to  confirm  the  words  of  the  mother,  a 
sudden  change  came  over  her.  Her  respiration,  which  had 
been  impeded  and  violent  before,  became  easier ;  and,  closing 
her  eyes,  she  leaned  back  upon  the  pillow,  from  which,  during 
the  greater  part  of  the  previous  conference,  her  head  had  been 
uplifted,  and  thus  prepared  herself  to  listen.  It  was  a  strong 
effort  which  she  made  to  be,  or  seem,  composed,  and  it  was 
only  successful  for  a  time.  My  confidence  in  it  soon  began  to 
waver,  as  I  found,  when  fairly  in  my  narrative,  that  her  eyes 
were  re-opened,  and  with  a  fearful  resumption  of  light  —  her 
head  once  more  raised  from  the  pillow  —  and  her  unconscious 
hand,  when  I  reached  that  part  of  my  narrative  which  detailed 
the  first  assault  upon  us  at  the  hovel  of  Webber,  suddenly  ex 
tended  and  grasping  my  arm  which  lay  on  the  bed  beside  her 
"  Stop  —  stop  awhile  —  a  moment  —  I  am.not  ready  yet  to  heai 
you  —  not  yet  —  not  yet !" 

I  paused  at  her  direction,  and  she  sank  back  upon  the  pillow, 
and  closed  her  eyes  with  a  rigid  pressure  of  her  fingers  upon 
their  lids,  as  if  to  shut  out  from  sight  some  horrible  vision.  In 
this  state  she  remained  for  a  space  of  several  seconds;  and  ] 
could  perceive,  when  she  resumed  her  attitude  of  attention, 


THE   MANIAC.  2T 

and  bade  me  proceed  with  my  narrative,  that. though  she  might 
have  succeeded  in  expelling  the  phantom  from  her  sight,  the 
very  effort  requisite  in  doing  so,  had  accelerated  the  action  of 
her  blood.  I  proceeded,  however,  striving  to  avoid  every  word, 
phrase,  or  unnecessary  incident,  which  might  have  the  effect 
of  increasing  the  vividness  of  an  event,  already  too  terribly  im- 
"jessive ;  but  with  all  my  caution  I  could  perceive  the  constant 
flow  and  gathering  of  excitement  in  her  brain.  Her  words  be 
came  thick,  yet  more  frequent.  She  started  constantly  from  the 
pillow,  to  which  she  as  constantly  and  immediately  sank  back, 
as  if  conscious  of  departing  from  the  tacit  pledge  which  she  had 
given  me,  but  which  I  had  never  relied  on,  to  be  calm  and  col 
lected  while  I  spoke.  At  length,  Avhen  I  told  of  the  flight  of 
Carrington,  of  his  pursuit  by  the  ruffians,  of  the  long  interval, 
in  which,  bound  to  the  floor,  I  lay  at  their  mercy,  and  after 
they  had  gone,  before  the  arrival  of  Grafton  to  my  relief;  and 
how  I  looked  for  my  friend  in  vain  among  those  who  rescued 
me ;  her  emotion  grew  utterly  beyond  constraint,  and  she  cried 
out  aloud,  and  gasped  with  such  effort  between  her  cries,  that  I 
dreaded  lest  suffocation  should  follow  from  her  fruitless  endeav 
ors  at  speech.  But  she  contrived  to  speak. 

"  Yes  !  yes  !  they  came — they  loosed  you — they  set  you  free 
— but  what  did  they  for  him  —  what  did  you,  who  called  your 
self  his  friend  1  What  did  you  for  him,  who  was  yours  ?  Tell 
me  that  — that!" 

These  were  words  of  madness  —  certainly  there  was  madness 
in  the  wild  and  roving  expression  of  her  fire-darting  eye.  I 
would  even  then  have  paused,  if  I  could ;  but  she  would  not 
suffer  it.  Resuming  a  look  of  calmness  —  such  a  look  as  mocked 
itself  by  its  inadequacy  to  effect  her  object  —  when  she  saw  me 
hesitate,  she  begged  me  to  continue. 

"I  am  calm  again,  Richard  —  it  was  for  a  moment  only. 
Forgive  me,  I  pray  you,  Richard  —  forgive  me,  and  go  on. 
Let  me  hear  the  rest.  I  will  not  cry  out  again." 

I  hastened  to  close  the  painful  narrative,  but  she  did  not  hear 
me  to  the  end.  She  was  no  longer  capable  of  knowing  what  she 
did  or  said;  but  leaping  from  the  couch,  in  defiance  of  all  my 
own  and  her  mother's  efforts  —  short  of  absolute  violence — to 
restrain  her,  she  strode  across  the  chamber,  as  if  with  a  leading 


274  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

purpose  in  view.  Then,  suddenly  turning,  she  confronted  me, 
with  a  face  in  which,  if  a  face  might  ever  be  said  to  blaze  with 
fire,  and  yet  maintain  its  natural  expression,  hers  did.  She 
gazed  on  me  for  a  few  seconds  with  all  the  intensity  of  an  ex 
pression  which  was  neither  hate  nor  anger,  but  blind  ferocity, 
and  destructive  judgment ;  and  then  she  spoke,  in  accents 
which  would  have  been  bitter  enough  to  my  heart,  had  I  not 
well  enough  understood  the  maddening  bitterness  in  hers. 

"And  so  he  was  murdered  —  and  you  led  him  on  this  expe 
dition  to  be  murdered  !  You  were  his  friend  —  and  while  they 
pursued  him  for  the  accursed  money  —  you  lay  quietly  —  with 
out  effort  —  having  bonds,  which  a  child  —  a  woman  —  which  I 
—  weak  and  feeble  as  I  am  —  which  I  would  have  broken  at 
such  a  time  —  which  you  might  have  broken,  had  you  been 
warmed  with  a  proper  spirit  to  help  your  friend  !  And  he 
thought  you  a  brave  man,  too  —  he  told  me  you  were  so,  and  I 
believed  it  —  I  gave  him  in  charge  to  you,  and  you  suffered 
your  villains  to  murder  him  !  Tell  me  nothing,  I  say,  Richard 
Hurdis — they  were  your  villains,  else  how  should  you,  a  brave 
man,  submit,  as  you  did,  to  be  bound  and  laughed  at,  while  he 
could  break  from  his  bonds  and  escape  from  the  very  snare  to 
which  you  so  tamely  submitted !  I  will  not  hear  you — they 
were  your  villains  —  else  how  should  you,  a  brave  man,  submit 
and  do  nothing!  Would  he  —  would  William  have  submitted 
thus?  Would  he  have  left  his  friend  to  perish?  —  or,  if  he 
could  not  save  his  life,  would  he  have  come  sneaking  home  with 
the  tidings  of  his  friend's  murder  and  his  own  base  cowardice  ? 
No,  Richard  Hurdis  !  — I  tell  you — I  answer  for  the  dead — he 
would  have  pursued  these  murderers  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  ! 
He  would  have  dragged  them  to  justice,  or  slain  them  with  his 
own  hands !  He  never  would  have  slept  in  his  bed  till  he  had 
\aken  this  vengeance  !  Day  and  night  would  have  been  to  him 
the  same  !  Day  and  night,  he  had  pursued  them  —  through  the 
forests  —  through  the  swamps,  in  all  haunts,  in  all  disguises,  till 
he  had  revenged  the  murder  of  his  friend  —  till,  for  the  holy 
blood  of  friendship,  he  had  drained  the  hearts  of  all  having  any 
hand  in  his  murder!  But  you  —  what  have  you  done?  Ha! 
ha  !  ha  !  Bravely — bravely,  Richard  Hurdis  !  William  thought 
you  had  courage — he  did  —  and  he  relied  on  it !  He  relied  too 


THR    MAX1AC.  275 

much.  You  have  shed  no  blood,  though  he  is  murdered  !  You 
have  neither  shed  the  blood  of  his  murderers,  nor  your  own! 
Show  me  a  finger-scratch,  if  you  can  !  You  are  —  ha!  ha!  ha! 
this  is  courage,  is  it?  —  and  lie  thought  you  brave!  Well,  the 
wisest  may  be  mistaken  —  the  wisest  —  the  very  wisest!" 

She  went  on  much  further,  but  her  ravings  grew  incoherent, 
and  at  length,  from  imperfect  thoughts,  her  strength  being  nigh 
exhausted,  she  only  articulated  in  broken  words  and  sentences. 
On  a  sudden,  she  stopped;  her  eye  grew  fixed  while  gazing 
upon  me,  and  her  lower  jaw  became  paralyzed,  ere  the  halting 
word  was  uttered.  I  snw  that  a  crisis  was  at  hand,  and  rushed 
toward  her  at  the  fortunate  n  -.ment.  I  caught  lier  as  she  fell ; 
«nd  she  lay  paralyzed  and  senseless,  like  the  very  u  arble.  in 
niv  arms. 


RICHARD    IIURDIS. 


CHAPTER    XL. 

DEATH  ! 

"  Are  th^y  botli  dead  ?     I  did  not.  think 
To  find  thoe  in  this  ]>al<>  society 
Uf  ghosts  so  soon!"  —  The  Brother* 

1'no  nil  little  of  a  physician,  I  yet  saw  that  something  n.-  «rt 
be  don  3  lor  her  relief  instantly,  in  this  almost  complete  suspen 
sion  of  her  powers,  or  she  must  perish  ;  and  procuring-  a  lancet, 
which  was  fortunately  in  the.  house,  made  an  opening  in  one  of 
her  arms.  The  results  were  hardly  satisfactory.  A  few  drops 
of  jellied  and  almost  black  blood  oozed  from  the  opening,  and 
had  no  visible  effect  upon  her  situation.  I  opened  a  vein  in 
the  other  arm,  but  with  little  better  success.  Warm  fomenta- 
tation  and  friction  were  next  resorted  to,  but  to  no  advantage ; 
and,  leaving  the  patient  to  the  charge  of  the  mother,  I  mounted 
my  horse,  and  rode  with  all  speed  to  tl\e  nearest  physician  —  a 
man  named  Hodges,  an  ignorant,  stupid  fellow,  but  the  best 
which  at  this  time  our  neighborhood  could  afford.  lie  was  one 
of  those  accommodating  asses  who  have  the  one  merit  at  least, 
if  they  are  fools  in  all  other  respects,  of  being  an  unpretending 
one  ;  and  gladly,  at  all  times,  would  he  prefer  taking  the  opinion 
of  another  to  the  task  of  making,  or  the  responsibility  of  giving, 
one  of  his  own.  I  have  heard  him  ask  an  old  lady  if  she  had 
jalap  and  calomel  in  the  house ;  and  when  she  replied  that  she 
\i?d  not,  but  she  "  had  some  cream  of  tartar,"  answer,  "  That 
will  do,  ma'am,"  and  give  the  one  medicine  in  lieu  of  the  other. 
There  was  little  to  be  looked  for  ;vt  the  hands  of  s.ich  a  crea 
ture  •  hut  what  were  we  to  do  1  I  ivul  already  exhausted  at! 
my  little  stock  of  information  on  such  subjects;  and  ignorance., 
in  a  time. of  emergency,  is  compelled  to  turn  even  to  licensed 
stupidity  for  the  relic  Ivhidh  it  cr.r  not  find  itself 


DEATH !  277 

Dr.  Hodges  came,  and  did  nothing.  He  reopened  the  veins 
without  advantage,  repeated  the  warm-water  fomentations,  took 
an  extra  chew  of  tobacco,  shook  his  empty  head,  and  remained 
silent.  I  ventured  a  suggestion,  of  the  merits  of  which  I  had 
only  a  partial  guess. 

"  Would  not  a  blister  to  the  head  help  her,  doctor?" 

"I  think  it  would,  Mr.  Hurdis  —  I  think  you  had  better 
try  it." 

Cursing  the  oaf  in  the  bitterness  of  my  heart,  I  went  to  work, 
with  the  help  of  the  old  lady,  and  we  prepared  a  blister.  When 
it  was  ready,  we  proceeded  to  cut  away  the  voluminous  masses 
of  her  raven  hair,  the  glistening  loveliness  of  which  we  could 
not  but  admire,  even  while  we  consigned  it  to  destruction.  But 
we  were  not  suffered  to  proceed  in  this  work.  Ere  the  scissors 
had  swept  away  one  shred,  the  unhappy  maiden  awakened  from 
her  stupor ;  but  she  awakened  not  to  any  mental  consciousness. 
She  was  mad  —  raving  mad;  and  with  the  strength  of  madness 
she  rushed  from  the  couch  where  she  was  lying,  and  flew  at  her 
mother  like  a  tigress.  I  was  fortunately  nigh  enough  to  inter 
fere,  and  save  the  old  lady  from  her  assaults,  or  the  effects 
might  have  been  seriously  hurtful.  I  clasped  her  in  my  arms, 
and  held  her,  though  with  some  difficulty.  Her  strength  was 
prodigious  under  the  terrible  excitement  which  ragc^l  in  her 
bosom ;  and,  though  rather  a  strong  man,  I  found  that  I  dared 
not  relax  for  a  single  instant  in  my  hold,  or  she  became  free 
Yet  she  complained  not  that  I  held  her.  She  uttered  no  word 
whatsoever.  She  knew  nothing ;  she  spoke  to  none.  Some 
times  a  sligjyt  moaning  sound  escaped  her  lips,  but  she  had  no 
other  form  of  language.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  and  fiery  ;  yet 
they  never  seemed  to  look  upon  any  one  of  us.  I  observed 
that  they  seemed  instinctively  to  avoid  the  light,  and  that  they 
shone  with  a  less  angry  lustre  when  turned  toward  the  darker 
sections  of  the  apartment,  and  from  the  windows.  Seeing  this, 
I  directed  the  mother  to  double  her  curtains,  and  exclude  as 
much  of  the  light  as  possible :  this  done,  it  seemed  to  relieve 
the  intensity  of  her  stare  and  action.  But  she  was  as  little  dis 
posed  to  be  quiet  as  before.  The  moment  I  yielded  in  my 
grasp,  that  moment  did  she  make  new  exertions  to  escape  ;  and 
when  she  failed  in  her  object,  that  same  slight  moaning,  per- 


278  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

haps,  once  or  twice  repeated,  was  all  tlie  acknowledgment  given 
by  her  lips  to  the  annoyance  which  the  constraint  evidently 
put  upon  her. 

In  the  meantime,  what  a  terrible  loveliness  shone  in  her 
countenance  and  form  !  The  pythoness,  swelling  with  the  volu 
minous  fires  of  the  god.  were  but  a  poor  comparison  to  the 
divinity  of  desolation,  such  as  she  appeared  at  that  moment  to 
my  eyes.  Her  long,  black  tresses,  which  we  had  let  loose  in 
order  to  cut,  were  thrown  all  around  her  own  neck,  and  par 
tially  over  my  shoulders  as  I  held  her.  Her  eyes  were  shoot 
ing  out  from  their  spheres  —  the  whites  barely  perceptible,  as 
the  dilating  orbs  seemed  to  occupy  entirely  the  dry  and  fiery 
cells  from  which  they  yet  threatened  momently  to  dart.  Pur 
ple  lines  and  blotches  gleamed  out  upon  and  as  suddenly  disap 
peared  from  her  face  —  the  consequence,  probably,  of  her  re 
straint,  and  the  violent  exertions  which  she  made  to  get  herself 
free  from  it ;  and  her  teeth  and  lips  were  set  as  resolutely  as  if 
death's  last  spasm  had  been  already  undergone.  If  they  had 
opened  at  all,  it  was  only  when  she  uttered  that  heart-piercing 
moan  —  so  faint,  so  low,  yet  so  thrilling,  that  it  seemed  to  indi 
cate  at  every  utterance  the  breaking  of  some  vital  string. 

In  this  way  she  continued  full  two  hours,  without  intermitting 
her  struggles.  My  arm*  had  grown  weary  of  the  rigid  grasp 
which  I  had  been  compelled  to  keep  upon  her,  and  sheer  ex 
haustion  must  have  soon  compelled  me  to  relax  my  hold.  But 
by  this  time  she,  too,  had  become  exhausted ;  her  efforts  grew 
fainter,  though  the  insane  direction  of  her  mind  was  not  a  whit 
changed.  Gradually,  I  felt  her  weight  increase  upon  me,  and 
her  own  exertions  almost  entirely  cease;  and  I  thought  at 
length  that  I  might  safely  return  her  to  the  couch.  It  was  with 
some  difficulty  that  I  did  so,  for  her  poor  mother  —  miserable 
and  infirm,  not  to  say  terrified — could  give  me  no  help;  and 
the  doctor,  no  less  terrified  than  she,  had  hurried  off,  on  the  first 
exhibition  of  the  maiden's  fury,  to  procure  her,  as  he  promised, 
some  medicine  which  was  to  be  potential  for  everything.  But 
the  doctor  knew  not  the  disease  of  his  patient.  With  all  his 
"parmaceti"  he  could  do  nothing  for  that  'inward  bruise" 
\\hich  was  mortifying  at  her  heart. 

VVhen  fairly  placed  in  the  bed,  I  found  it  still  somewhat  dif 


DEATH !  279 

ficult  to  keep  her  there ;  and,  in  order  to  avoid  grvmg  her  pain, 
which  the  grasp  of  my  hand  might  do,  I  contrived  to  fold  the 
bedclothes  in  such  a  manner  about  her  as  not  only  to  retard  her 
movements,  but  to  enable  us,  by  sitting  upon  either  side,  to 
keep  her  down.  An  old  negro-servant  was  called  in  to  assist 
in  this  duty,  and  with  the  mother's  aid  I  was  partially  relieved. 
With  a  few  struggles  more,  her  eyes  gradually  closed,  and  her 
limbs  seemed  to  relax  in  sleep.  An  occasional  moan  from  her  lips 
alone  told  us  that  she  suffered  still ;  and  a  sudden  opening  and 
flashing  of  her  eye  at  other  moments  still  served  to  convince  U8 
that  her  show  of  sleep  was  deceptive.  She  slept  not,  and  we 
were  compelled  to  be  watchful  still. 

While  she  remained  in  this  situation,  our  doctor  returned,  to 
my  great  surprise,  bringing  with  him  a  score  of  bottles,  with 
one  nostrum  or  another.  lie  seemed  a  little  more  confident  now 
in  what  he  should  do,  having  most  probably,  during  his  absence, 
consulted  some  book  of  authority  in  the  circle  of  his  limited 
reading.  Thus  prepared,  he  compounded  a  dose  from  some 
two  or  three  bottles,  one  of  which,  asafoetida,  soon  declared  its 
quality  to  our  nostrils,  and  left  no  hope  to  Dr.  Hodges  of  ma 
king  a  medical  mystery  —  a  practice  so  common  among  small 
practitioners  —  of  the  agent  by  which  he  was  to  work  the  salva 
tion  of  the  patient.  I  had  no  great  hope  of  the  potion  which  he 
brought,  for  I  had  no  great  faith  in  the  doctor ;  but  I  readily 
took  the  wineglass  in  which  he  compounded  it,  and  addressed 
myself  to  the  arduous  task  of  forcing  it  down  the  throat  of  the 
poor  sufferer.  It  was  an  arduous  task  indeed  !  Her  teeth  were 
riveted  together,  and  she  seemed  to  have  just  sense  enough  to 
close  them  more  tenaciously  in  defiance  to  our  prayer  that  she 
might  open  them.  Here  was  a  difficulty ;  but,  as  Hodges  in 
sisted  upon  the  vital  importance  of  the  dose,  cruel  as  the  opera 
tion  seemed,  I  determined  to  do  all  that  I  could  to  make  her 
take  it.  In  our  efforts  we  were  at  length  forced  to  pry  her 
teeth  apart  with  our  fingers,  and  to  force  the  glass  between 
them.  It  was  an  error  to  have  used  the  wineglass  in  such  a 
situation ;  and  the  reflection  of  a  single  instant  would  have 
taught  us  to  transfer  the  medicine  to  a  spoon.  We  were  taught 
this  lesson  by  an  incident  of  startling  terror  ;  for  no  sooner  had 
we  put  the  edge  of  the  glass  between  her  divided  teeth,  than 


280  RICHARD  Minima. 

they  closed  upon  it,  crunching  it  into  the  minutest  fragments. 
Fortunately,  I  was  prompt  enough  to  prevent  che  worst  conse 
quences  of  this  act.  I  dropped  the  fragment  */  the  glass  which 
remained  in  my  hands,  and  grasped  her  ins'UJJy  by  the  throat. 
I  grasped  her  almost  as  tightly  as  I  shoul'j  7j0ve  done  a  mortal 
foe.  It  was  a  desperate  resort  for  a  d^fporato  situation.  I 
nearly  strangled  her,  hut  it  was  the  only  'Jung  that  could  have 
saved  her  from  swallowing  the  broken  Articles.  With  my  fin 
gers,  while  the  jaws  were  stretched  aj^rt,  I  drew  out  the  bits 
of  glass,  which  were  numerous,  though  not  without  cutting  her 
mouth  and  gums  in  a  shocking  mar.ver.  The  blood  ran  from 
her  mouth,  and  over  the  side  of  hci  pallid  face,  staining  its  pu 
rity ;  and  her  tongue,  bleeding  al//>  the  while,  lining  over  the 
lips.  And  yet  she  seemed  to  ftv./  none  of  the  pain  :  no  cry 
escaped  her;  no  struggle  was  nvjdo;  and  the  occasional  moan 
which  now  and  then  continued  </>  escape  her  wa.s  the  acknowl 
edgment  of  a  greater  agony  '.r.'m  any  for  which  we  labored  to 
provide  remedies. 

Dr.  Hodges  persevered  ir.  his  physic,  but  we  might  as  well 
have  spared  the  poor  girl  th/.  pain  of  forcing  it  down  her  throat* 
for  it  did  no  good.  Her  must  aess,  it  is  true,  was  no  longer  hys 
terical  ;  but  this  change  WA?  probably  quite  as  much  the  result 
of  exhaustion  as  of  the  medicine  we  gave  her.  She  seemed 
conscious  of  none  of  our  labors ;  yet  she  studiously  kept  her 
eyes  from  the  spectator,  and  fixed  them  upon  the  darkest  part 
of  the  wall  of  her  chamber.  Her  grief  was  speechless  in  all 
other  respects ;  she  seemed  not  to  hear,  and  she  answered  none 
of  our  inquiries.  In  hope  to  arouse  and  provoke  her  conscious 
ness,  I  even  ventured  to  speak  to  her  of  her  lover,  and  the  cruel 
fate  which  had  befallen  him.  I  named  to  her  the  bitter  words 
of  death  which  I  had  shrunk  before  to  utter.  But  the  ear 
seemed  utterly  obtuse.  She  moved  neither  limb  nor  muscle, 
and  the  stupor  of  complete  mental  indifference  was  gradually 
overcoming  all  her  faculties.  Thus  she  continued  throughout 
that  day. 

Night  came  on,  and  yet  there  was  no  change.  It  was  a  dis 
mal  night  to  me.  I  sat  up  with  her  and  watched  her  with  a 
degree  of  nervous  irritation  and  anxiety  which  led  me  to  fear, 
at  moments,  that  I  might  fall  into  some  condition  of  insanity 


DEATH !  28 

like  that  I  witnessed.  The  poor  old  mother  strove  to  sleep,  but 
she  could  not  subdue  the  nature  within  her ;  and  that  raised 
her  every  moment  to  look  into  the  face  of  her  child,  whose  un 
conscious  eyes  were  yet  bright  and  unblessed  by  sleep.  Be 
sides  these,  there  were  no  interruptions  to  the  general  silence 
of  the  aight,  unless  that  slight  and  now  scarcely  sensible  moan, 
which  continued  at  intervals  to  escape  the  lips  of  the  sufferer, 
might  be  called  one.  Day  dawned  upon  us,  and  found  her  still 
in  the  same  condition.  We  gave  her  the  prescribed  physic ; 
but  I  felt,  while  pouring  it  down  her  throat,  that  our  labors 
were  as  cruel  as  they  were  idle.  We  administered  the  little 
nourishment  which  she  took,  in  the  same  manner,  by  violence. 
She  craved  nothing  —  she  asked  for  nothing  ;  and  what  we  gave 
her  brought  no  nourishment  in  consequence. 

The  day  and  night  passed  in  the  same  manner  with  the  pre 
ceding.  I  snatched  a  few  hours'  sleep  during  the  day,  and  this 
enabled  me  again  to  sit  up  with  her  the  night  following.  But 
there  were  other  watchers  besides  myself  around  her  bed ;  and, 
amid  all  my  agonizing  thought  of  the  terrible  picture  of  afflic 
tion  present  in  my  eyes,  there  were  other  thoughts  and  feelings 
of  a  far  different  character  mingling  among  them  and  operating 
upon  my  mind.  Mary  Easterby  sat  by  the  bedside  of  the  invalid, 
and  our  eyes  and  hands  met  more  than  once  during  the  night, 
which  to  me,  though  not  less  painful,  was  far  less  wearisome, 
than  that  which  I  had  passed  before.  Such  is  the  nature  of 
man.  We  foster  our  petty  affections  even  at  the  grave  of  our 
friend's  sweetest  hopes.  Our  plans  and  promises  for  self  .iesert 
us  nowhere  ;  they  mingle  in  with  our  holiest  emotions ;  they 
pile  the  dust  of  earth  upon  the  very  altars  of  heaven  !  Perhaps 
it  is  only  right  that  such  should  be  the  case.  Our  nature  while 
on  earth  must  be,  to  a  certain  extent,  earthy.  It  may  be,  too, 
that  our  pride  undergoes  some  restraint  when  it  discovers  that 
base  necessities  and  narrow  aims  clog  the  loftiest  wing,  and 
dazzle  the  most  eagle-eyed  of  the  soaring  spirits  among  men. 

But  why  linger  upon  a  painful  narrative  like  this  1  why  re 
cord  throbs  and  agonies  ]  I  will  hasten  to  a  conclusion  which 
the  reader  may  readily  anticipate.  Emmeline  Walker  died. 
In  three  days  more  she  was  silent  for  ever !  Her  hopes,  her 
fears,  her  pangs  —  all  were  silent,  all  buried.  Five  days  did 


282  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

i?he  live  in  tliis  state  of  suspended  consciousness  —  taking  n« 
nourishment  save  that  which  we  poured  down  her  throat  by 
main  force ;  and  every  added  hour  proved  her  less  able  to  op 
pose  us  in  our  labors  of  doubtful  kindness.  She  sank  just  after 
that  last  paroxysm  in  which  she  crushed  the  brittle  glass  be 
tween  her  teeth.  Our  man  of  art  had  exhausted  his  slender 
resources  of  skill,  and,  with  a  modesty  that  did  not  shake  a  con 
fident  head  of  power  to  the  last  moment,  he  soon  declared  his  in 
ability  to  help  her  more.  But  we  needed  not  his  words  to  give  us 
painful  assurance  to  this  effect.  We  saw  it  with  our  own  eyes, 
while  looking  into  the  fast-glazing  orbs  of  hers.  We  knew,  from 
every  symptom,  that  she  must  die.  Perhaps  it  was  as  well  — 
what  should  she  live  for  1 

It  was  on  the  sixth  day  after  her  attack,  when  her  powers 
had  been  so  far  exhausted  that  it  became  somewhat  doubtful  at 
moments  whether  she  breathed  or  not  —  and  when,  up  to  that 
time,  she  had  given  no  sort  of  heed  to  any  of  the  circumstances 
going  on  around  her  —  that  she  suddenly  started,  as  if  out  of  a 
deep  sleep,  and  turned  her  sad  but  still  bright  eyes,  now  full  of 
divine  intelligence,  upon  me.  There  was  "  speculation"  in  their 
orbs  once  more.  The  consecrating  mind  had  returned  to  its 
dwelling,  though  it  were  only  to  set  all  in  order,  and  then  dis 
pose  of  it  for  ever.  I  bent  forward  as  I  saw  the  glance  wh;ch 
she  gave  me,  and  breathlessly  asked  her  how  she  felt. 

"  Quite  well,"  she  answered,  in  a  scarcely-perceptible  whis 
per —  "quite  well,  Richard;  but  it  is  so  dark!  Do  put  aside 
that  curtain,  if  you  please.  Mother  has  shut  everything  up.  I 
don't  know  whether  it's  daylight  or  not." 

I  rose  and  put  aside  the  curtain ;  and  the  waiting  sunlight  — 
the  broken  but  bright  beams  that  he  sprinkled  through  the 
leaves  —  came  gliding  into  the  chamber.  Her  eyes  bright 
ened,  as  if  with  a  natural  sympathy,  when  she  beheld  them 
She  made  an  effort  to  raise  herself  in  the  bed,  but  sunk  back 
with  an  expression  of  pain,  which  slightly  impressed  itself  upon 
her  countenance,  even  as  a  breath  passes  over  the  mirror,  giving 
a  momentary  stain  to  its  purity.  It  was  one  breath  of  the  ap 
proaching  tyrant  —  to  her  the  consoler.  Seeing  that  she  desired 
to  be  raised,  I  lifted  and  sustained  her  head  upon  my  bosom 
tier  mother  asked  her  if  she  felt  better. 


DPATH  !  1*3 

••  Well,  quite  v.  ell,"  was  her  answer.  A  minute  did  not 
elapse  after  that,  when  I  felt  a  slight  shiver  pass  over  her  frame, 
which  then  remained  motionless.  Her  breathing  was  suspended. 
I  let  her  head  sink  back  gradually  upon  the  pillow,  and,  looking 
in  her  face,  I  saw  that  her  pure  yet  troubled  spirit  had  departed 
for  cAer.  Mv  watching  was  ended. 


RICBAJUJ   HUBDI8. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

LOVE   AND   REVENGE. 

"  I  shall  find  time , 

When  you  have  took  some  comfort,  I'll  begin 
To  mourn  his  death  and  scourge  the  murderer." 

T.  HETWOOD,  1655. 

THE  ending  and  beginning  I  had  seen — the  whole  of  this 
catastrophe.  We  buried  the  poor  maiden  in  a  grove  near  the 
dwelling  in  which  her  feet  had  often  rambled  with  him  whose 
grave  should  have  been  beside  her.  There  was  nothing  more 
for  me  to  do  —  there  was  no  reason  why^I  should  linger  ir, 
Marengo ;  and  I  resolved  once  more  to  leave  it.  As  yet,  my 
error  remained  unconnected  in  regard  to  Mary  Easterby.  I 
still  deemed  her  the  affianced  wife  of  John  Hurdis  ;  and —  some 
times  wondering  why  he  came  not  with  her  to  the  dwelling  of 
Emmeline  Walker,  and  sometimes  doubting  their  alliance,  from 
little  signs  and  circumstances,  which  now  and  then  occurred  to 
my  observation, —  I  was  still  impressed  with  the  conviction  that 
there  was  no  more  hope  for  me.  I  escorted  her  home  after  the 
burial  of  Emmeline,  and  sad  and  sweet  was  our  conference  by 
the  way.  We  rode  together,  side  by  side  on  horseback,  and  we 
soon  left  the  animals  to  their  own  motion,  which  was  gratefully 
sluggish  to  me.  I  will  not  say  whether  I  thought  it  so  to  her, 
but,  at  least,  she  gave  no  symptoms  of  impatience,  nor  made 
any  effort  to  accelerate  the  movements  of  her  steed.  It  v*  ill 
not,  perhaps,  be  assuming  too  much,  to  suppose  that,  in  s<  u:o 
large  respects,  our  thoughts  and  feelings  ran  together  in  satisili-.l 
companionship.  We  were  both  deeply  affected  and  subdued  Ly 
the  cruel  events  to  which  we  had  been  witnesses.  There  w.-is 
a  dreadful  warning  to  hope,  and  love,  and  youth,  in  tlfe  H;:<! 
history  which  has  been  written,  and  which  we  were  forced  tr 


LOVE   AND   REVENGE.  285 

read  in  every  stage  of  its  performance.  Never  could  morality 
teach  more  terribly  to  youth  its  own  uncertainties,  and  the 
mutations  hanging  around  that  deity  whose  altar  of  love  it  is 
in  >st  apt  to  seek  in  worship.  How  evanescent  to  our  eyes 
seemed  then  all  our  images  of  delight.  The  sunlight,  which 
was  bright  and  beautiful  around  us  —  making  a  "  bridal  of  earth 
and  sky," — we  looked  upon  with  doubt  and  apprehension  as  a 
delusion  which  must  only  woo  to  vanish.  We  spoke  together 
ol'  tlie.se  things;  and  what,  it  may  be  asked,  was  the  conclusion 
of  all  this  sombrous  reflection?  Did  it  make  either  of  us  for 
swear  the  world  and  hope?  Did  it  make  either  of  us  more 
doubtful  and  desponding  than  before  ?  No  !  Its  effects  were 
softening  and  subduing,  not  overthrowing  —  not  destructive  of 
any  of  those  altars,  to  which  love  brings  wreaths  that  wither, 
and  offers  vows  that  are  rejected  or  forgotten.  We*  lost  not  one 
hope  or  dream  of  youth.  We  gave  freedom  to  none  of  our 
anticipations.  Even  the  lessons  taught  us  by  the  death  of  those 
who,  loving  in  life  so  fondly,  in  death  were  not  divided,  were 
lessons  of  love.  The  odor  of  the  sacrifice  made  amends  for  the 
consumption  by  fire  of  the  rich  offerings  which  were  upon  the 
altar ;  and  love  lost  none  of  his  loveliness  either  in  her  eyes  or 
mine,  because,  in  this  instance,  as  in  a  thousand  others,  it  had 
failed  to  rescue  its  votaries  from  the  grasp  of  a  more  certain,  if 
not  a  greater  power.  The  lesson  which  was  taught  us  by  the 
fate  of  Emmeline  Walker,  made  us  esteem  still  more  highly 
the  sacred  influence,  which  could  consecrate  so  sweet  and  pure 
a  spirit  to  immortality,  and  lead  it,  without  struggle  or  reluc 
tance,  into  the  brazen  jaws  of  death.  What  a  triumph  to  youth, 
to  fancy,  to  reflection,  was  the  thought  which  portrayed  a  power 
so  wonderful  —  so  valuable  to  those  who  more  than  love  already. 

"  I  will  see  you  before  I  leave  Marengo,  Mary,"  was  my 
promise  on  leaving  her  that  evening. 

"  What !  you  mean  to  leave  us,  again,  Richard  ?"  was  her 
involuntary  and  very  earnest  demand.  "  Oh  !  do  not,  Richard 
—  wherefore  would  you  go?  Why  would  you  encounter  such 
cruel  risks  as  befell  poor  William  ?  Stay  with  us  — leave  us  not 
again." 

With  aii  '"Iterance  and  movement,  equally  involuntary,  I 
took  her  hand  and  replied  : — 


286  RK:HAUU  nunois. 

'•  A\id  would  you  have  me  stay,  Mary?  Wherefore.?  What 
reward  can  yon  give  ?  what  is  there  now  in  your  power  to  give 
that  could  bribe  me  to  compliance?" 

I  paused  just  at  the  time  when  I  should  have  spoken  freely. 
To  \\hat  I  had  said,  she  could  make  no  answer;  yet  she  had 
lu-r  answer  ready  to  what  I  might  have  said.  But  I  said  noth 
ing,  and  she  made  no  reply.  Yet,  could  I  have  seen  it! — had 
I  not  been  still  the  blind  and  besotted  slave  and  victim  to  my 
own  jaundicing  and  jealous  apprehensions,  the  blush  upon  her 
cheek,  the  tremor  upon  her  lip,  the  downcast  and  shaded  eye, 
the  faltering  accent  —  all  these  would  have  conveyed  an  an 
swer,  which  migbt  have  made  me  happy  then.  And  yet  these 
persuasive  signs  did  not  utterly  escape  my  sight.  I  felt  them, 
and  wondered  at  them  —  and  was  almost  tempted,  in  the  new 
warmth  of  heart  which  they  brought  me,  to  declare  my  affec 
tions,  but  for  the  thought  that  it  would  be  unseemly  to  do  so, 
at  a  moment  when  we  had  just  left  the  chamber  of  death,  and 
beheld  the  last  gleam  of  life  pass  from  the  eyes  of  loveliness 
and  youth.  Fool  that  I  was,  as  if  love  did  not  plant  his  roses 
even  on  the  grave  of  his  worshipper,  and  find  his  most  flourish 
ing  soil  in  the  heart  of  the  beloved  one. 

That  night  my  mother  drew  me  aside,  and  asked  me  with 
some  significance,  what  had  passed  between  Mary  and  myself. 

"  Nothing." 

"  What !  have  you  not  spoken  ?" 

"  Of  what  ?" 

"  Of  your  love  !  — " 

"  No  !  Why  should  you  think  it,  mother  ?  What  reason  ? 
Is  she  not  engaged  to  John  ?  is  that  matter  broken  off?" 

"  I  think  it  is  —  he  has  not  been  to  see  her  for  a  week." 

"  Indeed  !" 

"  And  have  you  not  seen,  my  son,  how  sad  she  looks  ?  she 
has  looked  so  ever  since  you  went  away." 

"  That  may  be  only  because  he  has  not  been  to  see  her, 
mother;  or,  it  may  be,  because  of  the  affliction  which  she  has 
been  compelled  to  witness." 

"  Well,  Richard,  I  won't  say  that  it  is  not,  and  yet,  my  son, 
I'm  somehow  inclined  to  think  that  yon  could  have  her  for  the 
asking;." 


LOVE   AND   REVENUE.  287 

*'  Do  you  think  so,  mother,  and  yet  —  even  if  it  were  so 
mother,  I  would  not  ask.  The  woman  who  lias  once  accepted 
the  hand  of  John  Hurdis,  though  she  afterward  rejects  him,  if 
not  the  woman  for  me." 

"But,  Richard,  I'm  not  so  sure  now,  that  she  ever  did  accept 
him.  There  was  that  poor  woman,  Mrs.  Pickett,  only  a  few 
days  ago  came  here,  and  she  took  particular  pains  to  let  me 
know  that  Mary  and  John  were  never  half  so  near  together,  to 
use  her  own  words,  as  Mary  and  yourself." 

"  How  could  she  know  anything  about  it  ?"  was  my  reply. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  ;  but  I  can  tell  you,  she's  a  very  know 
ing  woman  — " 

"  She  would  scarcely  be  the  confidant  of  Mary,  nevertheless." 

"  But  you  will  see  Mary,  Richard  —  you  will  try  ?" 

i;  If  I  thought,  mother,  that  she  and  John  had  never  been 
engaged  —  if  I  knew  that.  But  I  will  see  her." 

The  promise  satisfied  both  my  mother  and  myself  for  the 
time;  and  I  now  gave  myself  up  to  reflection,  in  solitude,  as  a 
new  task  had  been  forced  upon  me,  by  the  circumstances  of  the 
few  past  days.  1  had  suffered  more  in  mind  from  beholding  the 
misery  and  madness  of  Emmcline  Walker,  than  it  would  be 
manly  to  avow ;  and  there  was  one  portion  of  this  tragedy 
which  more  than  any  other,  impressed  itself  upon  me.  1  was 
haunted  by  the  continual  presence  of  the  lovely  maniac,  as  she 
appeared  at  the  moment  when  she  denounced  me  as  deserting 
my  friend,  exposing  and  leaving  him  to  peril,  and  finally,  suffer 
ing  his  murder  to  go  unavenged.  The  more  I  thought  upon 
this  last  passage  of  her  angry  speech,  the  more  impressively  did 
it  take  the  shape  of  moral  requisition.  I  strove  seriously  to 
examine  it  as  a  question  of  duty,  whether  I  was  bound  to  go 
upon  this  errand  of  retribution  or  not,  and  the  answers  of  mv 
mind  were  invariably  and  inevitably  the  same.  '  Shall  the  mur 
derer  go  unpunished  —  shall  so  heinous  a  crime  remain  una 
venged?  Are  there  no  claims  of  friendship  —  of  manhood 
upon  you  1  The  blood  of  the  innocent  calls  upon  you.  The 
indignities  which  you  yourself  have  undergone  —  these  call 
upou  you.  But  a  louder  call  upon  you  than  all,  is  the  demand 
of  Society.  She  calls  upon  you  to  ferret  out  these  lurkcrs  upon 
the  highway  —  to  bring  then;  to  justice  that  the  innocent  travel- 


^88  RICHARD    EIURDIS. 

ler  may  not  oe  shot  down  from  the  thicket,  in  the  sunshine,  ii. 
the  warm  morning  of  youth,  and  hope,  and  confidence.  True 
—  the  laws  of  man  do  not  summon  .you  forth  on  this  mission; 
but  is  there  no  stronger  voice  in  your  heart  inciting  you  to  the 
sacred  work  ?  The  brave  man  waits  not  for  his  country's  sum 
mons  to  take  the  field  against  the  foreign  enemy  —  shall  he  need 
her  call  when  his  friend  is  slain  almost  by  his  side  ;  and  when 
sworn  foes  to  friendship,  and  truth,  and  love,  and  all  the  social 
virtues,  lurk  in  bands  around  their  several  homes  to  prey  upon 
them  as  they  unconsciously  come  forth  ?  Can  you  doubt  that  it 
is  your  duty  to  seek  and  exterminate  these  wretches  ?  You  say 
that  is  the  duty  of  others  no  less  than  of  yourself;  but  does 
the  neglect  of  others  to  perform  their  duties,  render  yours 
unnecessary  or  release  you  ?  On  the  contrary,  does  it  not 
make  it  more  incumbent  upon  you  to  do  more  than  would  be 
your  duty  under  other  circumstances,  and  to  supply,  as  much  as 
lies  in  your  power,  their  deficiencies]'  Such  was  the  reasoning 
of  my  own  mind  on  this  subject ;  and  it  forced  conviction  upon 
me.  In  the  woods  where  I  had  meditated  the  matter,  I  made 
my  vow  to  the  avenging  deities. 

"  I  will  seek  the  murderers,  so  help  me  Heaven !  I  wiL 
suffer  not  one  of  them  to  escape,  if  it  be  within  the  scope  oi 
my  capacity  and  arm,  to  bring  them  to  justice."  And,  eve| 
upon  the  ground  where  I  had  made  this  resolution,  I  kneeled 
and  prayed  for  the  requisite  strength  and  encouragement  from 
Heaven  in  the  execution  of  my  desperate  vow. 

This  resolution  induced  another,  and  endued  me  with  a  courage 
which  before  I  had  not  felt.  Conceiving  myself  a  destined  man, 
I  overleaped,  at  a  moment,  all  the  little  boundaries  of  false  deli 
cacy,  morbid  sensibility,  and  mere  custom,  which  before,  had, 
perhaps,  somewhat  taken  from  my  natural  hue  of  resolution  — 
and  the  next  day  I  rode  over  to  the  house  of  Mary  Easterby. 
A  complete  change  by  this  time  had  taken  place  in  my  feelings 
in  one  respect.  I  was  no  longer  apprehensive  of  what  I  said 
in  speaking  to  Mary.  I  now  proceeded  as  if  in  compliance 
with  a  prescribed  law;  and  asking  her  to  walk  with  me,  I  led 
ler  direitly  to  the  favi.iite  walk  which,  in  our  childhood,  our 
own  feet  ihiefly  had  beaten  out  in  the  forests.  I  conducted  her 
\most  b  silence  to  the  huge  fallen  tree  -which  had  formed  the 


LOVE    AND    REVENGE.  28£ 

boundary  of  our  previous  rambles,  and  seated  her  upon  it,  and 
myself  beside  her,  as  I  had  done  a  thousand  times  before. 

"And  now,  Mary,"  I  said,  taking  her  hand,  "I  have  a  seri 
ous  question  to  ask  you,  and  beg  that  yon  will  answer  it  with 
the  same  unhesitating  directness  with  which  I  ask  it.  Your 
answer  will  nearly  affect  my  future  happiness." 

I  paused,  but  she  was  silent  —  evidently  through  emotion  — 
and  I  continued  thus  : — 

"You  know  me  too  well  to  suppose  that  I  would  say  or  do 
anything  to  offend  you,  and  certainly  you  will  believe  mo  when 
I  assure  you  that  it  is  no  idle  curiosity  which  prompts  me  to  ask 
the  question  which  I  will  now  propose." 

A  slight  pressure  of  her  fingers  upon  my  wrist,  her  hand  be 
ing  clasped  the  while  in  mine,  was  my  sufficient  and  encour 
aging  answer,  and  I  then  boldly  asked  if  she  was  or  had  been 
engaged  to  John  Ilurdis?  Her  answer,  as  r  e  reader  must 
anticpate,  was  unequivocally  in  the  negative,  hi  the  next  mo 
ment  she  was  in  my  arms  —  she  was  mine  !  Tl.rn  followed  ex 
planations  which  did  away,  as  by  a  breath,  with  a  hundred  little 
circumstances  of  my  own  jaundiced  judgment,  and  of  my  broth 
er's  evil  instigation,  which  for  months  1  had  looked  upon  as 
insuperable  barriers.  For  the  part  which  John  Ilurdis  had  in 
raising  them,  I  was  at  that  moment  quite  too  happy  not  to  forgive 
him.  I  now  proceeded  to  tell  Mary  of  my  contemplated  jour 
ney,  but  not  of  its  objects.  This  1  kept  from  the  knowledge  of  all 
around  me,  for  its  successful  prosecution,  I  had  already  well  con 
ceived,  could  only  result  from  the  secrecy  with  which  I  pursued 
it.  Nor  did  I  suffer  her  to  know  the  direction  of  country  in 
which  I  proposed  to  travel ;  this  caution  was  due  to  my  general 
plan,  and  called  for,  at  the  same  time,  by  her  natural  apprehen 
sions,  which  would  have  been  greatly  alarmed  to  know  that  I 
was  about  to  go  into  a  region  where  my  friend  had  been  so  in 
humanly  murdered.  I  need  not  say  that  she  urged  every  argu 
ment  to  keep  me  in  Marengo.  She  pleaded  her  own  attachment, 
which,  having  once  avowed,  she  now  delighted  in  ;  and  urged 
every  consideration  wh'u-h  might  be  supposed  available  among, 
the  thoughts  of  a  young  maiden  unwilling  to  let  her  lover  go, 
But  my  resolve  had  been  too  seriously  and  solemnly  taken.  "  I 
had  ail  oath  in  heaven !"  and  no  tics,  even  such,  so  dear  ones, 


290  RICHARD    IIURDIS. 

as  those  which  I -had  just  formed,  could  make  me  desire  escape 
from  it  if  I  could.  She  was  compelled  to  yield  the  contest,  since 
I  assured  her  that  my  resolution  was  no  less  imperative  than  rny 
engagements  ;  hut  I  promised  to  return  soon,  and  our  marriage, 
was  finally  arranged  for  that  period.  What  an  hour  of  bliss 
was  that,  in  those  deep  groves,  under  that  prevailing  silence  ! 
What  an  Elysium  had  suddenly  grown  up  around  me!  I  low 
potent  was  the  magician  which  could  make  us  forget  the  graves 
upon  which  we  stood,  and  the  blood  still  flowing  around  us. 
dreaming  only  of  those  raptures  which,  in  the  fortunes  of  two 
other  fond  creatures  like  ourselves,  had  so  suddenly  been  de 
feated  !  In  that  hour,  I  thought  not  of  the  dangers  1  was  about 
to  undergo,  and  she  —  the  dear  girl  hanging  on  my  bosom,  and 
shedding  tears  of  pleasure  —  she  seemed  to  forget  that  earth 
ever  contained  a  tomb  ! 

Next  morning,  after  we  had  taken  breakfast,  I  strolled  down 
the  avenue  to  the  entrance,  and  was  suddenly  accosted  by  a 
man  whom  I  had  never  seen  before.  He  rode  up  with  an  air 
of  confidence,  and  asked  me  if  I  was  Mr.  Ilurdis  —  Mr.  John 
.Ilurdis?  I  replied  in  the  negative,  but  offered  to  show  him  the 
way  to  the  house,  where  he  would  find  the  person  whom  he 
Bought.  We  met  John  coming  forth. 

"That  is  your  man,  sir,"  said  I  to  the  stranger,  lie  thanked 
me,  and  instantly  ndvaneed  to  my  brother.  1  could  not  help 
being  a  spectator,  for  I  was  compelled  to  pass  them  in  order  to 
enter  the  house;  and  my  attention  was  doubly  fixed  by  the 
singular  manner  in  which  the  stranger  offered  John  Ilurdis  his 
hand.  The  manner  of  the  thing  seemed  also  to  provoke  the 
astonishment  of  .John,  himself,  who  looked  at  me  with  surprise 
amounting  to  consternation.  I  \\as  almost  disposed  to  laugh 
out  at  the  idiot  stare  with  which  he  transferred  his  gaze  from 
me  to  the  stranger,  and  to  me  again,  for  the  expression  seemed 
absolutely  ludicrous;  but  I  was  on  terms  of  too  much  civility 
with  my  brother  to  exhibit  any  siu-h  unnecessary  familiarity: 
and,  passing  into  the  house,  I  left  the  two  together.  Their 
business  seemed  of  a  private  nature,  for  thev  went  into  the 
neighboring  woods  to  finish  it;  and  .John  Ilurdis  did  not  return 
from  the  interview,  until  I  had  set  forth  a  second  time  on  my 
travels.  The  meaning:  of  this  conference,  and  the  cause  of  that 


ANO    REVENGE.  291 

singular  approach  of  the  stranger,  which  awakened  so  much 
seeming  astonishment  in  the  face,  of  John  Html  is,  will  be  suffi 
ciently  explained  hereafter.  Little  did  I  then  imagine  the  na- 
Uire  of  that  business  which  I  had  undertaken,  and  of  the  mys 
terious  developments  of  crime  to  which  my  inquiries  would 
I wul  me. 


RICHAIID    HUIL!1^ 


UNIVER- 
CHAPTER    XLII. 

DKSPAIR    OF    TIIK    VICTIMS 

"  What!  thou  dost  quit  me  then — 
In  the  first  l»lnsh  of  my  necessity, 
The  danger  yet  at  distance." — Captive. 

IT  was,  peril aps,  an  earnest  of  success  in  the.  pursuit  which  1 
had  undertaken,  that  I  did  not  underrate,  to  myself,  its  many 
difficulties.  I  felt  that  I  would  have  to  contend  with  experi 
enced  cunning  and  probably  superior  strength  —  that  nothing 
but  the  utmost  adroitness  and  self-control  could  possibly  enable 
me  to  effect  my  purposes.  My  first  object  was  to  alter  rny  per 
sonal  appearance,  so  as  to  defeat  all  chance  of  recognition  bv 
any  of  the  villains  with  whom  I  had  previously  come  in  collis 
ion.  This  was  a  work  calling  for  much  careful  consideration. 
To  go  down  to  Mobile,  change  my  clothes,  and  adopt  such 
fashions  as  would  more  completely  disguise  me,  were  rny  imme 
diate  designs ;  and  I  pushed  mv  way  to  this,  my  first  post,  with 
all  speed,  and  without  any  interruption.  My  first  care,  in  Mo 
bile,  was  to  sell  my  horse,  which  I  did,  for  one  hundred  and 
eighty  dollars.  1  had  now  nearly  five  hundred  dollars  in  pos 
session —  a  small  pan  in  silver,  the  rest  in  United  States  bank, 
Alabama,  and  Louisiana  notes,  all  of  which  were  equally  cur 
rent.  I  soon  procured  a  coupJe  of  entire  suits,  as  utterly  differ 
ent  from  anything  I  had  previously  worn  as  possible.  Then, 
having  a  proper  regard  to  the  usual  decoration  of  the  professed 
gamblers  of  our  country,  I  entered  a  jeweller's  establishment, 
and  bought  sundry  bunches  of  seals,  a  tawdry  watch,  a  huge 
chain  of  doubtful,  but  sold  as  virgin,  gold  ;  and  some  breast 
pins  ami  shirt-buttons  of  saucer  size.  To  those  who  had  per 
sonally  known  me  before,  I  was  well  assured  that  no  disguise 
would  have  been  more  perfect  than  that  afforded  by  these  trin- 


DISPAIIl    OF   THE    VICTIMS.  203 

feets;  but,  when,  in  addition  to  these  and  tlio  other  changes  in 
my  h.ibit,  of  which  I  have  spoken,  I  state  that  my  beard  waa 
suffered  to  grow  goat-like,  after  the  most  approved  models  of 
dandyism,  under  the  chin,  in  curling  masses,  and  my  •whiskers, 
in  rival  magnificence,  were  permitted  to  overrun  my  cheeks  — 
I  trust  that  I  shall  be  believed,  when  I  aver  that  after  a  few 
weeks  space,  I  scarcely  knew  myself.  I  had  usually  been 
rather  fastidious  in  keeping  a  smooth  cheek  and  chin,  and  I 
doubt  very  much,  whether  my  own  father  ever  beheld  a  two 
days'  beard  upon  me,  from  the  day  that  I  found  myself  man 
enough  to  shave  at  all,  to  the  present.  The  more  I  contempla 
ted  my  own  appearance,  the  more  sanguine  I  became  of  success; 
and  I  lingered  in  Mobile  a  little  time  longer,  in  order  to  give 
beard  and  whiskers  a  fair  opportunity  to  overrun  a  territory 
which  before  had  never  shown  its  stubble.  When  this  time 
was  elapsed,  my  visage  was  quite  Siberian  ;  a  thick  cap  of 
otter-skin,  which  I  now  procured,  fully  completed  mv  northern 
disguises,  and,  exchanging  my  pistols  at  a  hardware  establish 
ment,  for  others  not  so  good,  but  for  which  1  had  to  give  some 
considerable  boot,  I  felt  myself  fairly  ready  for  my  perilous  ad 
venture.  It  called  for  some  resolution  to  go  forward  when  the 
time  came  for  my  departure,  and  when  I  thought  of  the  dan 
gers  before  me;  but,  when,  in  the  next  instant,  1  thought  of 
the  murder  of  my  friend,  and  of  the  sad  fate  of  his  betrothed, 
my  resolution  of  vengeance  was  renewed.  1  tvlt  that  1  had  an 
oath  in  Heaven  —  sworn  —  registered;  —  and  1  repeated  it  on 
earth  ! 

Let  me  now  return,  for  an  instant,  to  the  condition  of  my 
worthy  brother,  and  relate  some/passages,  in  their  proper  place 
in  this  narrative,  which,  however,  did  not  come  to  my  knowledge 
for  some  time  after.  The  reader  will  remember  my  meeting 
with  the  stranger  at  the  entrance  of  the  avenue  leading  to  my 
father's  house,  who  asked  for  John  Ilurdis,  and  to  whom  I  in 
troduced  him.  It  will  also  be  remembered  that  I  remarked  the 
surprise,  nay  almost  consternation,  which  his  appearance  and 
address  seemed  to  produce  in  my  brother's  countenance.  There 
was  a  reason  for  all  this,  though  I  dreamed  not  of  it  then.  John 
Hurdishad  good  cause  for  the  terrors,  which,  at  that  time,  I  found 
rather  ludicrous,  and  was  almost  disposed  to  laugh  at.  They  went 


294  RICHARD    HURDTS. 

together  into  the  woods,  and,  as  T  loft,  tlio  plantation  for  Mobile 
an  hour  after,  I  saw  no  more  of  either  of  them  on  that  occasion 
The  business  of  the  stranger  may  best  be  told  in  John  Ilnrdlft'l 
own  words.  Th.it  very  afternoon  he  went  to  the  cottage  of 
Piekett,  whom  he  summoned  forth,  as  was  his  custom,  by  a  sig 
nal  agreed  upon  between  them.  When  together,  in  a  voice  of 
great  agitation,  John  began  the  dialogue  as  follows : — 

"  I  am  ruined,  Pickett  —  ruined,  undone  for  ever  !  Who  do 
von  think  has  come  to  me  —  presented  himself  at  the  very  house, 
and  demanded  to  see  me?" 

Pickett  looked  up,  but  exhibited  no  sort  of  surprise  at  this 
speech,  as  he  replied  by  a  simple  inquiry  :  "  Who  ?" 

"  A  messenger  from  this  d — d  confederacy.  A  fellow  with 
his  cursed  signs  —  and  a  summons  to  meet  the  members  at  some 
place  to  which  he  is  to  give  me  directions  at  a  future  time.  1 
run  required  to  be  in  readiness  to  go  Heaven  knows  where,  and 
to  meet  with  Heaven  knows  who  —  to  do  Heaven  knows  what  !" 

I'ickett  answered  coolly  enough,  and  with  an  air  of  resigna 
tion  to  his  fate,  which  confounded  Ilurdis:  — 

"  He  has  been  to  me  too,  and  given  me  the  same  notice." 

••  Ha!  and  what  did  you  tell  him  —  what  answer  —  what  an 
swer  ?" 

'•That  T  would  come  —  that  I  was  always  ready.  I  suppose 
you  told  him  so,  likewise?" 

44  Ay  —  you  may  well  suppose  it  —  what  else,  in  the  name  of 
all  the  fiends,  could  I  tell  him.  I  have  no  help  —  T  must  sub 
mit —  I  am  at  their  mercy  —  thanks  to  your  bungling,  Ben 
Pickett  —  you  have  drawn  us  both  into. a  bog  which  is  closing 
apon  us  like  a  gulf.  I  told  him  as  you  told  him,  though  it  was 
\n  the  gall  of  bitterness  that  I  felt  myself  forced  to  say  so  much, 
vhat  I  would  obey  the  summons  and  be  ready  when  the  time 
came  to  meet  the  'mystic,  confederacy.'  Hell's  curses  upon 
their  confederates  and  mystery  —  that  1  V-MS  at  their  disposal 
as  I  was  at  their  mercy,  to  go  as  they  bid  me,  and  do  as  they 
commanded  —  T  was  their  servant  —  their  slave,  their  ox,  their 
iss,  their  anything.  Death!  death!  that  I  should  move  my 
tongue  to  such  admission,  and  feel  my  feet  bound  in  obedience 
with  my  tongue." 

"  It's  mighty  hard,  'squire,  but  it's  no  use  getting  into  a  pas- 


DESPAIR   OP   THE   VICTIMS.  295 

sion  about  it.  We're  in,  and.  like  the  horse  in  the  mire,  we 
mustn't  think  to  bolt,  till  we're  out  of  it.'* 

"It's  mighty  hard,  and  no  use  getting  in  a  passion,"  said 
Ilurdis  ironically,  and  with  bitterness  repeating  the  words  of 
his  companion.  "  "Well,  I  know  not,  Ben  Pickett,  what  situa 
tion  would  authorize  a  man  in  becoming  angry  and  passionate 
if  this  docs  not.  You  ??em  to  take  it  coolly,  however.  You're 
more  of  a  philosopher,!  see,  than  I  can  ever  hope  to  make  myself." 

"Well,  'squire,  it's  my  notion,"  said  the  other,  "that  what's 
not  to  be  helped  by  grumbling,  will  hurt  the  grumbler.  I've 
found  it  so  always  ;  and  now  that  I  think  of  it,  'squire,  there's 
less  reason  for  you  to  grumble  and  complain  than  anybody  I 
know ;  and  as  it's  just  as  well  to  speak  the  truth  first  as  last,  I 
may  say  now  once  for  all,  that  it  was  you  that  bungled,  not  me, 
or  we  shouldn't  have  got  into  this  bog;  or  we  might  have  got 
out  of  it.'' 

"Indeed!  !  bungle,  and  how,  I  pray  you,  Mr.  Pickett? 
Wasn't  it  you  that  was  caught  in  your  own  ambush  ?" 

"  Yes  —  but  who  sent  me  ?  I  was  doing  your  business,  'squire, 
as  well  as  I  could  ;  and  if  you  didn't  like  my  ability,  why  did 
you  trust  it?  Why  didn't  you  go  yourself?  I  didn't  want  to 
kill  Richard  Ilurdis  —  I  wasn't  his  brother." 

"  And  then  to  mistake  your  man  too  —  that  was  another  spe 
cimen  of  your  bungling." 

"  Look  you,  'squire,  the  less  you  say  about  that  matter,  the 
better  for  both  of  us.  The  bungling  is  but  a  small  part  of  that 
business  that  I'm  sorry  for.  I'm  sorry  for  the  whole  of  it,  and 
if  sorrow  could  put  back  the  life  in  Bill  Carrington's  heart,  and 
be  security  for  Dick  Hurdis's  hereafter,  they'd  both  live  for 
ever  for  me.  But  if  I  was  such  a  bungler  at  first,  'squire,  there's 
one  thing  I  may  tell  you,  and  tell  you  plainly.  I  was  never 
afraid  to  pull  trigger,  when  everything  depended  on  it.  The 
cure  for  all  my  bungling  was  in  your  own  hands.  When  the 
man  first  talked  with  us  in  these  same  woods,  under  them  Mil- 
lows,  what  did  I  say  to  you?  Didn't  I  offer  to  close  with  him, 
if  you'd  only  agree  to  use  your  pistol  ?  And  wasn't  you  afraid  ?" 

"I  was  not  afraid  —  it  was  prudence  only  that  made  me  put 
it  off,"  said  Ilurdis  hastily. 

"  And  what  made  you  put  it  off  when  you  waylaid  him  in 


296  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

Ten-Mile  Branch  ?  No,  'squire,  as  you  confessed  yourself,  it 
was  because  you  were  afraid  to  shoot,  though  everything  hung 
on  that  one  fire.  Had  you  tumbled  that  fellow,  we  hadn't  seen 
this ;  and  if  it  had  been  convenient  for  me  to  have  done  it,  as 
God's  my  judge.  I'd  much  rather  have  put  the  bullet  through  a 
dozen  fellows  like  that,  than  through  one  clever  chap  like  Bill 
Carrington.  That's  a  business  troubles  me,  'squire  ;  and  more 
than  once  since  he's  been  covered,  I've  seen  him  walk  over  my 
path,  leaving  a  cold  chill  all  along  the  track  behind  him." 

"  Pshaw,  Ben,  at  your  ghosts  again." 

"  No,  'squire,  they're  at  me.  But  let's  talk  no  more  about  it. 
What  can't  be  undone,  may  as  well  be  let  alone.  We  must 
work  out  our  troubles  as  we  can ;  and  the  worst  trouble  to  our 
thoughts  is,  that  we  have  worked  ourselves  into  them.  We 
have  nobody  but  ourselves  to  blame." 

The  manner  of  Pickett  had  become  somewhat  dogged  and 
inflexible,  and  it  warned  Hurdis,  who  was  prompt  in  observing 
the  changes  of  temper  in  his  neighbor,  to  be  more  considerate 
in  his  remarks,  and  more  conciliating  in  his  tone  of  utterance. 

"  Well,  but  Ben,  what  is  to  be  done  ?  What  are  we  to  do 
about  this  summons  ?  How  shall  we  get  over  it  ?  how  avoid  it  ?" 

"  Avoid  it !  I  don't  think  to  avoid  it,  'squire." 

"  What !  you  intend  to  go  when  they  call  you  ?" 

"Certainly  —  what  can  I  do  ]  Don't  you  intend  to  go* 
Did  you  not  promise  obedience  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  I  never  thought  of  going.  My  hope  was,  that 
something  might  turn  up  between  this  and  then,  that  would  in 
terpose  for  my  safety.  Indeed  I  never  thought  of  anything  at 
the  moment,  but  how  best  to  get  rid  of  the  emissary." 

"  That's  the  smallest  matter  of  all,"  said  Pickett. 

"  Now  it  is,"  replied  Ilurdis,  "  but  it  was  not  then,  for  1 
dreaded  lest  some  one  should  ask  his  business.  Besides,  he 
was  brought  up  to  me  by  Ilichard,  and  his  keen  eyes  seem  al 
ways  to  look  through  me  when  he  speaks.  As  you  say,  to  get 
rid  of  him  is  in  truth  a  small  business,  to  getting  rid  of  his  gang. 
How  can  that  be  done  is  the  question  ]  I  had  hope  when  I 
same  to  you — 

The  other  interrupted  him  hastily. 

"Don't  come  to  me  for  hope,  'squire;    I  should  bungle,  per 


DESPAIR    OF    THE    VICTIMS.  297 

haps,  in  what  I  advise  you  to  do,  or  in  what  I  do  for  you  my 
self.  Let  us  each  paddle  our  canoes  apart.  I'm  a  poor  man 
that  can't  hope  to  manage  well  the  business  of  a  rich  one  ;  and 
as  I've  done  so  badly  for  you  before,  it  won't  be  wise  in  you  to 
employ  me  again.  Indeed,  for  that  matter,  I  won't  be  employ 
ed  by  you  again.  It's  hard  enough  to  do  evil  for  another,  and 
much  harder,  to  get  no  thanks  for  it." 

"P.shaw,  Ben,  you're  in  your  sulks  now — think  better  of  it, 
my  friend.  Don't  mind  a  harsh  word — a  hasty  word — uttered 
when  I  was  angry,  and  without  meaning." 

"I  don't  mind  that,  'squire — I  wish  it  was  as  easy  to  forget 
all  the  rest,  as  to  forgive  that.  But  the  blood,  'squire — the 
blood  that  is  on  my  hands — blood  that  I  didn't  mean  to  spill, 
'squire — 'tis  that  makes  me  angry  and  sulky — so  that  I  don't 
care  what  comes  up.  It's  all  one  to  me  what  happens  now." 

"  But  this  fellow,  Ben.  You  say  you  have  resolved  to  comply 
with  the  summons,  and  to  go  when  they  call  for  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  what  am  I  to  do  ?" 

"The  same,  I  suppose.  I'm  ready  to  go  now;  and  I  give 
you  the  last  counsel,  'squire,  which  I  think  I  ever  will  give 
you,  and  that  is  to  make  the  best  of  a  bad  situation — do  with 
a  good  grace  what  you  can't  help  doing,  and  it  will  go  the  bet 
ter  with  you.  They  can't  have  any  good  reason  to  expose  a 
man  of  family  to  shame,  and  they  will  keep  your  secret  so  long 
as  you  obey  their  laws." 

"But  suppose  they  command  me  to  commit  crime — to  rob, 
to  murder  ? " 

"Well  then  you  must  ask  yourself  which  you'd  prefer — to 
obey  or  to  swing.  It's  an  easy  question." 

"On  all  sides — -the  pit — the  fire — the  doom!"  was  the  piti 
able  and  despairing  exclaimation  of  Ilurdis,  as  he  clasped  his 
forehead  with  his  hands,  and  closed  his  eyes  against  the  terrors 
which  his  imagination  brought  before  them.  Suddenly  recur 
ring,  he  asked— 

"But  why,  Ben,  do  you  say  this  is  the  last  counsel  which 
you  will  give  me?  You  do  not  mean  to  suffer  a  hasty  and 
foolish  word,  for  which  I  have  already  uttered  my  regrets,  to 
operate  in  your  mind  ng-)i:v-t  m<j  - 


298  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

"No,  'Squire  Hurdis,  I  don't  mind  the  words  of  contempt 
that  you  rich  men  utter  for  the  poor ;  if  I  did,  1  should  be  mis 
erable  enough  myself,  and  make  many  others  more  so.  That's 
gone  out  of  my  mind,  and,  as  I  tell  you,  I  forget  it  all  when  I 
think  of  those  worse  matters  which  I  can't  so  well  forgot." 

"  Why,  then,  say  you  will  counsel  me  no  more  ?" 

"  Because  I'm  about  to  leave  Marengo  for  ever." 

"Ha!  remove!  where  —  when?" 

•'  In  three  days,  'squire,  I'll  be  off,  bag  and  baggage,  for  the 
'  nation.'  My  wife's  ripe  for  it ;  she's  been  at  me  a  long  time 
to  be  off  from  a  place  where  nobody  knows  any  good  of  me. 
Ind  I  have  heard  a  good  deal  about  the  '  nation.' " 

"And  what  will  you  do  there  for  a  livelihood?" 

"  Well,  just  what  I  can ;  try,  at  least,  to  live  a  little  more 
honestly  than  I  did  here  —  or  more  respectably,  which  is  not 
often  the  same  thing." 

"  But  do  you  expect,  when  there,  to  evade  this  confederacy  ? ' 
Hurdis  eagerly  demanded. 

"No  —  I  have  no  such  hope." 

"  How,  then,  can  you  hope  to  live  more  honestly  ?" 

"  More  respectably,  I  may." 

"  They  will  summon  you  to  do  their  crimes." 

"  I  will  do  them." 

"  What !  shed  more  blood  at  a  time  when  you  are  troubled 
for  what's  already  done  ?" 

"Yes  —  I  will  obey  where  I  can  not  escape;  but  I  will  ao 
no  crime  of  that  sort  again  on  my  own  account  —  nothing  which 
I  am  not  forced  to  do.  But  if  they  say,  '  Strike,'  I  will  do  so 
as  readily  as  if  it  was  the  best  action  which  they  commanded. 
I  will  cut  the  throat  of  my  best  friend  at  their  bidding ;  for  you 
see,  'squire,  I  have  been  so  long  knocked  about  in  the  world  — 
now  to  one  side,  now  to  another,  like  a  clumsy  log  going  down 
stream —  that  I'm  now  quite  indifferent,  I  may  say,  to  all  the 
chances  of  the  current,  and  I'll  just  go  wherever  it  may  drive 
me.  This  '  confederacy'  can't  make  me  worse  than  I  have  been 
—  than  I  am  —  and  it  increases  my  security  and  strength.  It 
gives  me  more  certain  means  and  greater  power ;  and,  if  1  am 
to  be  forced,  I  will  make  what  use  I  can  of  the  power  that 
forces  ma 


DESFATK    OF   THE   VICTIMS.  291 

"  But,  Ben,  such  a  resolution  will  make  you  a  willing  and 
active  member  of  tins  clan." 

"  Surely  !"  said  the  other  indifferently. 

"All  your  old  interests  and  friendships,  Ben,  would  be  for 
saken,  rooted  up — " 

"Ay,  'uquire,  and  my  old  friends  just  as  liable  to  my  bullet 
ami  knife  as  my  enemies,  if  the  command  of  the  confederacy 
required  me  to  use  them.  You  yourself,  'squire  —  though  we 
have  worked  together  for  a  long  time  —  even  you  I  would  not 
spare,  if  they  required  me  to  shed  your  blood  ;  and  you  will 
^;>e  from  this  that  there  is  no  hope  for  you  unless  you  comply 
>vith  the  summons,  and  heartily  give  yourself  up  to  the  interests 
of  the  whole  fraternity." 

Ilurdis  was  stricken  dumb  by  this  frank  avowal  of  his  asso 
ciate.  He  had  no  more  to  say  ;  and,  with  a  better  understand 
ing  of  each  other  than  either  had  ever  possessed  before,  there 
was  now  a  wall  between  them,  over  which  neither  at  the  pres 
ent  moment  seemed  willing  to  look. 

In  three  days  more,  Pickett  with  all  his  family  was  on  his 
way  toward  the  **  nation,"  where,  it  may  be  added  in  this  place, 
he  had  already  made  arrangements  with  the  emissary  for  a 
more  active  co-operation  with  the  members  of  the  "  Mystic 
Confederacy."  His  destiny,  which  forced  him  into  the  bosom 
of  this  clan,  seemed  thoroughly  to  yield  to  his  desire.  The  buf 
feting  of  the  world,  of  which  he  had  spoken,  had  only  made 
him  the  more  indifferent  to  the  loveliness  of  virtue  —  more  reck 
less  of  the  risk,  and  less  averse  to  the  natural  repulsivenenb,  of 
vice. 


£00  RICiTAKD    liUttUIa. 


CHAPTER   XLIII 

AMONG    THE    ENEMY. 

"  He  seemed 

For  dignity  composed,  and  high  exploit; 
But  all  was  false  and  hollow."  —  MILTON. 

it  oroper  for  me  to  pause  in  my  narrative  for  the  pur 
pose  of  moial  reflection,  how  naturally  would  the  destitute  con 
dition  of  the  criminal,  as  instanced  in  the  case  of  John  Ilurdis, 
present  itself  for  comment !  Perhaps  the  greatest  penalty  which 
vice  ever  suffers  is  its  isolation  —  its  isolation  from  friends  and 
fellowship  —  from  warm  trust,  from  yielding  confidence.  Its 
only  resources  are  in  the  mutual  interests  of  other  and  perhaps 
greater  criminals,  and  what  is  there  in  life  so  unstable  as  the 
interests  of  the  vicious  1  How  they  fluctuate  with  the  approach 
of  danger,  or  the  division  of  the  spoil,  or  the  drunkenness  of 
heart  and  habit  which  their  very  destitution  in  all  social  respects 
must  necessarily  originate !  When  John  Hurdis  separated 
from  his  late  colleague,  who  had  taught  him  that  they  were  no 
longer  bound  to  each  other  by  mutual  necessities,  he  felt  as  if 
the  last  stay,  in  the  moment  of  extremity,  was  suddenly  taken 
from  him.  A  sickness  of  soul  came  over  him,  and  that  despaii 
of  the  spirit  which  the  falling  wretch  endures  in  the  brief  in 
stant  when,  catching  at  the  impending  limb,  he  finds  it  yielding 
the  moment  that  his  hold  is  sure  upon  it,  and,  in  its  decay,  be 
traying  utterly  the  last  fond  hope  which  had  promised  him 
security  and  life. 

But,  enough  of  this:  my  journey  is  begun.  I  entered  a 
steamboat  one  fair  morning,  and,  with  promising  auspices,  so 
far  as  our  voyage  is  considered,  we  went  forward  swimmingly 
enough.  But  our  b-jat  was  an  old  one  —  a  wretched  hulk,  which 
having  worked  wt  its  term  of  responsible  service  in  the  Missis 


AMONG   THE   ENEMY.  SOI 

sippi,  had  been  sent  round  to  Mobile,  at  the  instance  of  cupidity, 
to  beguile  unwitting  passengers  like  myself  to  their  ruin.  She 
was  a  piece  of  patchwork  throughout,  owned  by  a  professional 
gambler,  a  little  Israelite,  who  took  the  command  without  know 
ing  anything  about  it,  and,  by  dint  of  good  fortune,  carried  us 
safely  to  our  journey's  end.  Not  that  we  had  not  some  little 
stoppages  and  troubles  by  the  way.  Some  portion  of  the 
machinery  got  out  of  order,  and  we  landed  at  Demopolis.  built 
a  fire,  erected  a  sort  of  forge,  and  in  the  space  of  half  a  day  and 
night  repaired  the  accident.  This  incident  would  not  be  worth 
relating,  but  that  it  exhibits  the  readiness  with  which  our  wild 
est  and  least  scientific  people  can  find  remedies  for  disasters 
which  would  seem  to  call  for  great  skill  and  most  extensive 
preparations. 

On  the  eleventh  day  we  reached  Columbus;  but, in  the  mean 
time,  practising  my  new  resolves,  I  made  an  acquaintance  on 
board  the  boat.  This  was  an  old  gentleman,  a  puritan  of  the 
bluest  complexion,  whom  nobody  would  have  suspected  of  being 
a  rogue.  Setting  out  to  seek  for  and  meet  with  none  but  rogues, 
he  yet  nearly  deceived  me  by  his  sanctity  ;  and  had  I  not  main 
tained  my  watchfulness  a  little  longer  than  I  deemed  necessary 
myself,  I  should  have  taken  it  for  granted  that  he  was  a  saint 
of  the  most  accepted  order,  and,  if  1  had  not  committed  my  se 
cret  to  his  keeping,  I  should  at  least  have  so  far  involved  its 
importance  as  to  make  my  labor  unavailing.  Fortunately,  as  I 
said,  having  put  on  the  dress  common  to  the  gamblers  of  the 
great  Mississippi  valley,  as  much  of  their  easy  impudence  of  de 
meanor  as  I  could  readily  assume,  I  succeeded  as  effectually  in 
convincing  my  puritan  that  I  was  a  rogue,  as  he  did  in  persua 
ding  me  at  the  beginning  that  he  was  an  honest  man.  It  was 
my  good  fortune  to  find  out  his  secret  first,  and  to  keep  my  own. 
It  so  happened  that  there  were  several  passengers,  like  myself, 
bound  for  Columbus,  on  the  Tombeckbe,  to  which  place  ouj 
boat  was  destined.  As  customary  at  that  time,  we  had  no 
sooner  got  fairly  under  way,  before  cards  were  produced,  and 
one  fellow,  whose  lungs  and  audacity  were  greater  than  the 


302  RICUARD    IIUKDIS. 

challenge.  I  had  provided  myself  in  Mobile  with  several  packs, 
and,  taking  a  couple  of  them  in  hand,  I  went  forward  to  the 
table,  which  meanwhile  had  been  drawn  out  in  the  cabin,  and 
coolly  surveyed  my  companions.  Our  puritan  came  forward  at 
the  same  moment,  and  in  the  gravest  terms  and  tones  protested 
against  our  playing. 

"My  young  friends,"  he  cried,  "let  me  beg  you  not  to  en 
gage  in  this  wicked  amusement.  Cards  are  —  as  it  has  been 
often  and  well  said  —  cards  are  the  prayer-books  of  the  devil. 
It  is  by  these  that  he  wins  souls  daily  to  his  gloomy  kingdom. 
Night  and  day  he  is  busy  in  these  arts  to  entrap  the  unwary, 
whom  he  blinds  and  beguiles,  until,  when  they  open  their  eyes 
at  last,  the}'  open  them  in  dwellings  of  damnation.  Oh,  my 
dear  children,  do  not  venture  to  follow  him  so  far!  Cast  the 
temptation  from  you  —  defy  the,  tempter;  and,  in  place  of  these 
dangerous  instruments  of  sin,  hearken,  I  pray  you,  to  the  goodly 
outpourings  of  a  divine  spirit.  If  you  will  but  suffer  me  to 
choose  for  you  a  text  from  this  blessed  volume — " 

Here  he  took  a  small  pocket-bible  from  his  bosom,  and  was 
about  to  turn  the  leaves,  when  a  cry  from  all  around  me  silenced 
him  in  his  homily,  which  promised  to  be  sufficiently  unctuous 
and  edifying :  — 

"  No  text,  no  text !"  was  the  general  voice ;  "  none  of  the 
parson,  none  of  the  parson  !" 

"  Nay,  my  beloved  children — "  the  preacher  began,  but  a 
tall,  good-humored  looking  fellow  —  a  Georgian,  with  the  full 
face,  lively  eyes,  and  clear  skin,  of  that  state  —  came  up  to  him, 
and  laid  his  broad  hand  over  his  mouth. 

"  Shut  up,  parson,  it's  no  use.  You  can't  be  heard  now,  for 
you  see  it's  only  civility  to  let  the  devil  have  the  floor,  seeing 
he  was  up  first.  If,  now,  you  had  been  quick  enough  with 
your  prayer-book,  and  got  the  whip-hand  of  him,  d — n  my  eyes, 
but  you  should  have  sung  out  your  song  to  the  end  of  the 
verses;  but  you've  been  slow,  parson  —  you've  been  sleeping  at 
your  stand,  and  the  deer's  got  round  you.  You'll  get  smoked 
by  the  old  one,  yourself,  if  you  don't  mind,  for  neglecting  your 
duty." 

"  Peace,  vain  young  man  ! — " 

Ho  was  about  to  begin  a  furious  denunciation,  but  was  al* 


AMONG   THE    ENEMY.  .303 

lowed  to  proceed  no  further.  The  clamor  was  unanimous  around 
him ;  and  one  tall  fellow,  somewhat  dandyishly  accoutred,  like 
myself,  coming  forward,  made  a  show  of  seizing  upon  the  ex 
horter.  Here  1  interposed. 

"  No  violence,  gentlemen ;  it's  enough  that  we  have  silenced 
the  man  —  let  him  not  be  hurt." 

"Ay,  if  he  will  keep  quiet,"  said  the  fellow,  still  threatening. 

"  Oh,  quiet  or  not,"  said  the  Georgian,  "  we  mustn't  hurt  the 
parson.  'Dang  it,  he  shan't  be  hurt !  I'll  stand  up  for  him. 
Parson,  I'll  stand  up  for  you  ;  but,  by  the  hokey,  old  black,  you 
must  keep  your  oven  close  !" 

I  joined  in  promising  that  he  would  be  quiet,  and  offer  no 
further  interruption ;  and  he  so  far  seemed  to  warrant  our  assu 
rance  as,  without  promising  himself,  to  take  a  seat,  after  a  few 
half -suppressed  groans,  on  a  bench  near  the  table  on  which  we 
were  about  to  play.  I  was  first  struck  with  suspicion  of  the 
fellow  by  this  fact.  If  the  matter  were  so  painful  to  his  spirit, 
why  did  lie  linger  in  our  neighborhood  when  there  were  so 
many  parts  of  the  boat  to  which  he  might  have  retreated  ?  The 
suspicion  grew  stronger  when  I  found  him,  after  a  little  while 
as  watchfully  attentive  to  the  progress  of  the  game  as  any  of 
the  players. 

Favorably  impressed  with  the  frankness  of  the  Georgian,  1 
proposed  that  we  should  play  against  the  other  two  persons 
who  were  prepared  to  sit  down  to  the  table,  and  my  offer  was 
closed  with  instantly.  We  bet,  on  each  hand,  on  the  highest 
trump,  and  on  the  game  with  each  of  our  opponents,  a  dollar 
being  the  amount  of  each  bet,  so  that  we  had  a  good  many  dol 
lars  staked  on  the  general  result  of  the  game.  I  know  that  I 
lost  nine  dollars  before  the  cards  had  been  thrice  dealt.  I  now 
proceeded  to  try  some  of  the  tricks  which  I  had  seen  others 
perform,  and  in  particular  that  in  which  the  dealer,  by  a  pecu 
liar  mode  of  shuffling,  divides  the  trumps  between  his  partner 
and  himself.-*  My  object  was,  to  fix  the  attention  of  one  of  my 
opponents,  whom  I  suspected  from  the  first  to  be  no  better  than 
lie  should  be,  simply  because  he  wore  a  habit  not  unlike  my 
own,  and  was  covered  with  trinkets  in  the  same  manner.  But 
I  lacked  experience  :  there  was  still  a  trick  wanting,  which  no 
bleight-of-haud  '•£  mine  could  remedy.  Though  I  shuffled  th? 


£04  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

cards  as  I  had  seen  them  shuffled,  by  drawing  them  alternately 
from  top  to  bottom  together,  I  found  neither  mine  nor  my  part- 
ner't*  hand  any  better  than  before ;  and  looking  np,  with  some 
affected  chagrin  in  my  countenance,  I  caught  sight  of  what 
seemed  to  be  an  understanding  smile  between  the  opponent  in 
question  and  the  parson,  who,  sitting  a  little  on  one  side  of  me, 
was  able  to  look,  if  he  desired  it,  into  my  hand.  This  discov 
ery —  as  I  thought  it  —  gave  me  no  little  pleasure.  I  was  re 
solved  to  test  it,  and  ascertain  how  far  I  was  correct  in  my  sus 
picions.  I  flattered  myself  that  I  was  in  a  fair  way  to  fail  upon 
the  clue  whir  h  might  conduct  me  into  the  very  midst  of  the 
gamblers,  who  are  all  supposed  to  be  connected  more  or  less  on 
the  western  waters,  and  yield  me  possession  of  their  secrets. 
Accordingly,  I  displayed  certain  of  my  cards  ostentatiously  be 
fore  the  eyes  of  the  preacher,  and  had  occasion  to  observe,  an 
instant  after,  that  the  play  of  my  opponent  seemed  to  be  regu 
lated  by  a  certain  knowledge  of  my  hand.  He  finessed  con 
stantly  upon  my  lead,  and  with  an  adroitness  which  compelled 
the  continual  expression  of  wonder  and  dissatisfaction  from  the 
lips  of  my  partner.  I  was  satisfied,  so  far,  with  the  result  ->f 
my  experiment,  and  began  to  think  of  pausing  before  T  pro 
ceeded  further;  when  my  Georgian  dashed  down  his  cards  as 
the  game  was  ended  against  us,  and  cried  out  to  me,  with  a 
countenance  which,  though  flushed,  was  yet  full  of  most  excel 
lent  feeling :  — 

"  Look  you,  stranger,  suppose  we  change.  We  don't  seen: 
to  have  luck  together,  and  there's  no  fun  in  being  all  the  time 
on  the  losing  side.  The  bad  luck  may  be  with  me,  or  it  maj 
be  with  you,  I  don't  say,  but  it  can  do  no  harm  to  shift  it  tc 
other  shoulders,  whoever  has  it.  I've  been  diddled  out  of 
twenty-six  hard  dollars  in  mighty  short  order." 

"Diddled  !"  exclaimed  my  brother  dandy,  with  fin  air  of 
ineffable  heroism,  turning  to  my  partner.  Without  discom 
posure  the  other  replied: — 

"I  don't  mean  any  harm  when  I  say  diddled,  stranger,  so 
don't  be  uneasy.  1  call  it  diddling  when  I  lose  my  money, 
fight  as  hard  for  it  as  I  can.  That  is  the  worst  sort  of  diddling 
I  know." 

The  other  looked  fierce  for  a  moment,  but  he  probably  sooi 


AMONG   THE   ENEMY.  306 

discovered  that  the  Georgian  had  replied  without  heeling  his 
air  of  valor,  and  there  was  something  about  his  composed  man 
ner  which  rendered  it  at  least  a  doubtful  point  whether  anything 
in  the  shape  of  an  insult  would  not  set  his  bulky  frame  into 
overpowering  exercise.  The  disposition  to  bully,  however 
slightly  it  was  suffered  to  appear,  added  another  item  to  my 
suspicions  of  the  character  before  me.  The  proposition  of  my 
partner  to  change  places  with  one  of  the  other  two,  produced  a 
different  suggestion  from  one  of  them,  which  seemed  to  please 
us  all.  It  was  that  AVC  should  play  vmgt-un. 

"  Every  man  fights  on  his  own  hook  in  that,  and  his  bad  luck, 
if  lie  has  any,  hurts  nobody  but  himself." 

I  had  begun  to  reproach  myself  with  a  course  which,  how 
ever  useful  in  forwarding  my  own  objects,  had  evidently  con 
tributed  to  the  loss  by  my  partner  of  his  money.  If  free  to 
throw  away  my  own,  I  had  no  right  to  try  experiments  on  his 
purse,  and" I  readily  gave  my  assent  to  the  proposition.  Oar 
bets  were  more  moderate  than  before,  but  I  soon  found  the 
game  a  losing  one  still.  The  preacher  still  sat  at  my  elbow, 
and  my  brother  dandy  was  the  banker ;  and  in  more  than  one 
instance  when  I  have  stood  on  "  twenty"  he  has  drawn  from 
the  pack,  though  having  "eighteen"  and  "nineteen," — upon 
which  good  players  will  always  be  content,  unless  assured  that 
better  hands  are  in  the  possession  of  their  opponents,  when,  by 
"  drawing,"  they  can  not  lose.  This  knowledge  could  only  be 
received  from  our  devoted  preacher,  and  when  I  ceased  to  play 

—  which,  through  sheer  weariness  1  did  —  I  did  so   with  the 
most  thorough  persuasion,  that  the  two  were  in  correspondence 

—  they  were  birds  of  the  same  brood. 

Moody  and  thoughtful,  for  I  was  now  persuaded  that  my  own 
more  important  game  was  beginning  to  open  before  me,  I  wem 
to  the  stern  of  the  boat,  and  seated  myself  upon  one  of  the 
bulks,  giving  way  to  the  bitter  musings  of  which  my  mind  wa, 
sufficiently  full.  While  I  sat  thus,  1  was  startled  on  a  suddei 
to  find  the  preacher  beside  me. 

"Ah,  my  young  friend,  I  have  watched  you  during  youi 
sinful  play,  against  which  I  warned  you,  with  a  painful  sort  of 
curiosity.  Did  I  not  counsel  you  against  those  devilish  instru 
ments — you  scorned  my  counsel,  and  what  has  been  your  for 


306  RICHARD    IIURDIS. 

tune.  You  have  lost  money,  my  son,  money  —  a  goodly  sum 
which  might  have  blessed  the  poor  widow,  and  the  portionlesf 
orphan  —  which  might  have  sent  the  blessings  of  the  word  infr 
strange  lands  among  the  benighted  heathen  —  which  mighJ 
have  helped  on  in  his  labors  some  wayfaring  teacher  of  the 
word  —  which  might  be  most  needful  to  yourself,  my  son;  which, 
indeed,  I  see  it  in  your  looks  —  which  you  could  very  ill  spare 
for  such  purposes,  and  which  even  now  it  is  your  bitter  suffering 
that  you  have  lost." 

Admiring  the  hypocrisy  of  the  old  reprobate,  I  was  yet,  in 
obedience  to  my  policy,  prepared  to  respect  it.  I  availed  my 
self  of  his  own  suggestion,  and  thus  answered  him. 

"  You  speak  truly,  sir ;  I  bitterly  regret  having  lost  my 
money,  which,  as  you  say,  I  could  ill  spare,  and  which  it  has 
nearly  emptied  my  pockets  to  have  lost.  But  suppose  I  had 
been  fortunate  —  if  I  was  punished  by  my  losses  for  having 
played,  he  who  won,  I  suppose,  is  punished  by  his  winnings  for 
the  same  offence.  How  does  your  reason  answer  when  it  cuts 
both  ways  ?" 

"  Even  as  a  two-edged  sword  it  doth,  my  friend  ;  though  in 
the  blindness  of  earth  you  may  not  so  readily  see  or  believe  it. 
Truly  may  it  be  said  that  you  are  both  equally  punished  by 
your  fortunes.  You  suffer  from  your  losses  —  who  shall  say 
that  he  will  suffer  less  from  his  gains.  Will  it  not  encourage 
him  in  his  career  of  sin  —  will  it  not  promote  his  licentiousness 
— his  indulgence  of  many  vices  which  will  bring  him  to  disease, 
want,  and  possibly  —  which  Heaven  avert  —  to  an  untimely  end. 
Verily,  my  friend,  I  do  think  him  even  more  unfortunate  than 
thyself;  for,  of  a  truth,  it  may  be  said,  that  the  right- use  of 
money  is  the  most  difficult  and  dangerous  of  all;  and  few  ever 
use  it  rightly  but  such  as  gain  it  through  great  toil,  or  have  the 
divine  instinct  of  Heaven,  which  is  wisdom,  to  employ  it  to  it* 
rightful  purposes." 

Excellent  hypocrite  !  How  admirably  did  he  preach  ?  HOM 
adroitly  did  he  escape  what  had  otherwise  been  his  dilemma 
He  almost  deceived  me  a  second  time. 

"  In  your  heart,  now,  my  friend,  you  bitterly  repent  that  yoi 
heeded  not  my  counsel." 


THE  KXKMY. 

"  Xot  a  whit  !"  was  my  reply  ;   "  if  I  were  sure  I  could 
I  would  stick  liy  the  card  table  for  ever." 

"What!  so  profligate  and  so  young.  Oil!  my  friend,  think 
upon  your  end — think  of  eternity." 

"Rather  let  me  think  of  my  beginning,  reverend  sir.  if  you 
please.  The  business  of  time  requires  present  attention,  and 
to  a  man  that  IF  starving  your  talk  of  future  provision  is  a  mere 
mockery.  Give  me  to  know  bow  I  am  to  get  the  bread  of  life 
in  this  life  before  you  talk  to  me  of  bread  for  the  next." 

"  How  should  you  get  it,  my  friend,  but  by  painstaking  and 
labor,  and  worthy  conduct.  The  world  esteems  not  those,  who 
play  at  cards  — " 

"And  I  esteem  not  the  world.  What  matters  it  to  me.  my 
good  sir,  what  are  the  opinions  of  those  to  whom  I  ;im  unknown, 
and  for  whom  1  care  nothing.  Give  me  but  money  enough,  and 
1  will  make  them  love  me,  and  honor  me.  and  force  truth  an' 
honesty  into  all  shapes,  that  they  may  not  offend  my  principles 
or  practice." 

"But,  my  son,  you  would  not  surely  forget  the  laws  of  hon 
esty  in  the  acquisition  of  wealth  .'" 

This  was  said  inquisitively,  and  with  a  prying  glance,  of  the 
eye,  which  sufficiently  betokened  the  deep  interest  which  tlu 
hypocrite  felt  in  my  answer.  Hut  that  I  was  i*\v  persuaded  of 
his  hypocrisy,  I  should  have  never  avowed  myself  so  boldly. 

"  What  are  thev  ?  what  are  these  laws  of  honest}'  of  which 
you  speak  ?  I  can  not,  all  at  once,  say  that  I  know  them.' 

"  Not  know  them  !" 

"No!" 

"Well,"  he  continued,  "to  say  truth,  they  are  rather  he- 
quently  revoked  among  mankind,  and  have  others  wholly  oppos-ite 
in  character  substituted  in  their  place;  but  yon  can  not  mistake 
me,  my  young  friend — you  know  that  there  are  such  laws." 

"Ay,  laws  for  me  —  for  the  poor  —  to  crush  the  weak  —  rnadw 
by  the.  strong  for  their  own  protection  —  for  the  pvotertir  n  •:/ 
the  wealth  of  the  cunning.  These  are  not  lav.- 3  calculated  tr. 
win  the  respect  or  regard  of  the  destitute.  —  of  those  who  are 
desperate  enough,  if  they  did  not  lack  the  strength,  to  pull 
dnwii  Kor-ii'tv  with  a  fearless  hand,  though  perhaps,  they  pulled 
7  c.  gum  upon  themselves." 


308  mCHAKD    7TUr,n:S. 

"  But  you,  my  friend,  you  are  not  thus  desperate  —  this  is  nol 
your  situation." 

"  What !  you  would  extort  a  confession  from  me,  first  of  my 
poverty,  then  of  my  desperation  —  you  would  drag  me  to  the 
county  court,  would  you,  that  you  might  have  the  proud  satis 
faction  of  exhorting  the  criminal  in  his  last  moments,  in  the 
presence  of  twenty  thousand  admiring  fellow-creatures,  who 
come  to  see  a  brother  launched  out  of  life  and  into  hell.  This 
is  your  practice  and  creed  is  it  ?" 

"  No,  my  friend,"  he  replied,  in  a  lower  tone  of  voice,  which 
was,  perhaps,  intended  to  restrain  the  emphatic  utterance  of 
mine.  "Know  me  better,  my  friend  —  I  would  save  you  — 
such  is  my  heart  —  from  so  dreadful  a  situation — yes,  I  would 
even  defeat  the  purposes  of  justice,  though  I  felt  persuaded  you 
would  sin  again  in  the  same  fashion.  Be  not  rash  —  be  not 
hasty  in  your  judgment  of  me,  my  friend.  I  like  you,  and  will 
say  something  to  you  which  you  will,  perhaps,  be  pleased  to 
hear.  But  not  now  —  one  of  these  vicious  reprobates  ap 
proaches  us,  and  what  I  say  must  be  kept  only  for  your  own 
tars.  To-night,  perhaps  —  to-night." 

He  left  me  with  an  uplifted  finger,  and  a  look  —  such  a  look 
as  Satan  may  be  supposed  to  have  fixed  on  Adam  in  Paradibe 


DEEPER   IN   THE   PLOT.  809 


CHAPTER   XLIV. 

DEEPEK    IN    THE    PLOT. 

"Twill  be  a  bargain  and  sale, 
I  see,  by  their  close  working  of  their  heads, 
And  running  them  together  so  in  counsel." — BEN 

THE  old  hypocrite  sought  me  out  again  that  night.  So  far, 
it  appears  that  rny  part  had  been  acted  with  tolerable  success. 
My  impetuosity,  which  had  been  feigned,  of  course,  and  the 
vehemence  with  which  I  denounced  mankind  in  declaring  my 
own  destitution,  were  natural  enough  to  a  youth  who  had  lost 
his  money,  and  had  no  other  resources ;  and  I  was  marked  out 
by  the  tempter  as  one  so  utterly  hopeless  of  the  world's  favors, 
as  to  be  utterly  heedless  of  its  regards.  Of  such,  it  is  well- 
known,  the  best  materials  for  villany  are  usually  compounded, 
and  our  puritan,  at  a  glance,  seems  to  have  singled  me  out  as 
his  own.  We  had  stopped  to  repair  some  accident  to  tli« 
machinery,  and  while  the  passengers  were  generally  making 
merry  on  land,  I  strolled  into  the  woods  that  immediately  bor 
dered  upon  the  river,  taking  care  that  my  reverend  fox,  whose 
eye  I  well  knew  was  upon  me,  should  see  the  course  I  took.  I 
was  also  careful  not  to  move  so  rapidly  as  to  make  it  a  difficult 
work  to  overtake  me.  As  I  conjectured  would  be  the  case,  he 
followed  and  found  me  out.  It  was  night,  but  the  stars  were 
bright  enough,  and  the  fires  which  had  been  kindled  by  the 
boat-hands,  gave  sufficient  light  for  all  ordinary  objects  of  sight. 
I  sat  down  upon  the  bluff  of  the  river,  screened  entirely  by  the 
overhanging  branches  which  sometimes  almost  met  across  the 
stream,  where  it  was  narrow,  from  the  opposite  banks.  I  had 
not  been  here  many  minutes  before  the  tempter  was  beside  me. 

"You  are  sad,  my  friend  —  your  losses  trouble  you.  But 
distrust  not  Providence,  which  takes  care  of  us  all.  though 


.10  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

perhaps,  we  see  not  the  hand  that  feeds  us,  and  fancy  all  tho 
while  that  it  is  our  own.  You  will  be  provided  when  you  least 
'ook  for  it ;  and  to  convince  you  of  the  truth  of  what  I  say,  let 
me  tell  you  that  it  is  not  in  goodly  counsel  alone  that  I  would 
serve  you,  I  will  help  you  in  other  matters  —  I  can  help  you  to 
the  means  of  life  —  nay,  of  wealth.  Ha!  do  you  start?  Do 
you  wonder  at  what  I  say]  Wonder  not  —  be  not  surprised  — 
be  not  rash  —  refuse  not  your  belief,  for  of  a  truth,  and  by  tho 
blessing  of  God,  will  I  do  for  you  all  that  I  promise,  if  so  be 
that  I  can  find  you  pliant  and  willing  to  strive  for  the  goodly 
benefits  which  I  shall  put  before  you." 

"  What !  you  would  make  me  a  preacher,  would  you]  You 
would  have  me  increase  the  host  of  solemn  beggars  that  infest 
the  country  with  stolen  or  silly  exhortations,  stuffed  with  abused 
words,  and  full  of  oaths  and  blasphemy.  But  you  are  mistaken 
in  your  man.  I  would  sooner  rob  a  fellow  on  the  highway, 
than  pilfer  from  his  pockets  while  I  preach.  None  of  your 
long  talks  for  me — tell  me  now  of  some  bold  plan  for  taking 
Mexico,  which,  one  day  or  other,  the  southwest  will  have  to 
take,  and  I  am  your  man.  I  care  not  how  bold  your  scheme  — 
there  is  no  one  so  perfectly  indifferent  to  the  danger  as  he  who 
can  not  suffer  the  loss  of  a  single  sixpence  by  rope  or  bullet." 

"  You  do  not  say,  my  friend,  that  you  would  willingly  do 
such  violence  as  this  you  speak  of,  for  the  lucre  of  gain.  Sure 
ly,  you  would  not  willingly  slay  your  brother  for  the  sake  of 
his  gold]" 

"  Ask  me  no  questions,  reverend  sir,"  I  replied,  moodily.  "  I 
am  not  in  the  humor  to  be  catechized." 

"  And  yet,  my  friend,"  he  continued,  "  I  much  fear  me  that 
your  conscience  is  scarcely  what  it  should  be.  This  was  my 
surmise  to-day,  as  I  beheld  you  with  those  unholy  cards  in  your 
hands.  Did  I  riot  see  you,  while  giving  them  that  sort  of  dis 
tribution  which  is  sinfully  styled  shuffling — <lid  I  not  see  you 
practising  an  art  which  is  commonly  held  to  be  unfair  among 
men  of  play  ]  Ha  !  my  son  —  am  I  not  right  ]  have  I  not  smit 
ten  you  under  the  fifth  rib  ]" 

"  And  what  should  you,  a  preacher  of  the  gospel,  as  you  call 
yourself,  what  should  you  know  about  shuffling]" 

"  Preacher  of  the  gospel  I  am,  my  friend,"  was  his  cool  redv. 


DEEPER   IN   THE   PLOT.  311 

"  X  am  an  expounder  of  the  Holy  Scriptures,  though  it  may  be 
an  unworthy  one.  I  have  my  license  from  the  Alabama  confe 
rence,  for  the  year  18 — ,  which,  at  a  convenient  season,  I  am 
not  unwilling  that  you  should  see.  Yet,  though  I  am  a  preach 
er  of  the  blessed  word,  I  have  not,  and  to  my  shame  be  it  spo 
ken,  been  always  thus.  In  my  youth,  I  am  sad  to  say,  I  was 
much  given  to  carnal  indulgence,  and  many  were  the  evil  prac 
tices  of  my  body,  and  many  the  evil  devices  of  my  heart.  In 
this  time  of  my  ignorance  and  sin,  I  was  a  great  lover  of  these 
deadly  instruments  of  evil ;  and,  among  my  fellows,  I  was  ac 
counted  a  proficient,  able  to  teach  in  all  the  arts  of  play.  It 
was  thus  that  I  acquired  the  knowledge  —  knowledge  which 
hurts  —  to  see  when  tliou  designedst  a  trick  in  which  thou  didst 
yet  fail,  to  win  the  money  of  thy  fellow.  I  will  show  thee  that 
trick,  my  friend,  that  thou  mayst  know  I  tell  thce  nothing  but 
the  truth." 

Here  was  a  proposition  from  a  parson.  I  closed  with  him 
instantly. 

"  You  will  do  me  a  great  service,  I  assure  you." 

"  But,  my  friend,  you  would  not  make  use  of  thy  knowledge 
to  despoil  thy  fellow  of  his  money  ?" 

"  Would  I  not  1     For  what  else  would  I  know  the  art  ?" 

"But,  if  I  could  teach  thee  other  and  greater  arts  than  these 
—  if  I  could  show  thee  how  to  make  thy  brother's  purse  thine 
own,  at  once,  and  without  the  toil  of  doling  it  out  dollar  by  dol 
lar —  I  fear  me,  my  friend,  that  thou  wouldst  apply  this  knowl 
edge  also  to  purposes  of  evil  —  that  thou  wouldst  not  regard  the 
sinfuluess  of  such  performances,  in  the  strong  desire  of  lucre 
which  I  see  is  in  thy  heart  —  that  thou  wouldst  seek  an  early 
cliauce  to  put  in  practice  the  information  which  I  give  thee." 

"  And  wherefore  give  it  me,  then  1  Of  a  certainty  I  would 
employ  it,  as  you  see,  to  increase  my  means  of  life." 

"  Alas !  my  friend,  but  thy  necessity  must  be  great,  else 
would  I  look  upon  tltee  with  misgivings  and  much  horror." 

"  Great,  indeed  !  I  tell  you,  reverend  sir,  but  that  for  your 
coming,  it  is  ten  to  one  I  had  sent  a  bullet  through  my  own 
head,  or  buried  myself  in  the  waters  of  the  Bigby." 

"  Thou  surely  didst  not  meditate  an  act  so  heinous." 

"  Look  here  !"  and  I  showed  him  my  pistol  as  I  spoke.     Hi 


312  RICHARD  ii minis. 

coolly  took  it  into  his  hands,  threw  up  the  pan,  and,  with  his 
finger,  assured  himself  that-  it  was  primed.  His  tone  was  al 
tered  instantly.  lie  dropped  the  drawling  manner  of  the  ex 
horting;  and,  though  his  conversation  was  still  sprinkled  with 
the  canting  slang  of  the  itinerant  preacher,  which  long  use  had 
probably  made  habitual,  yet  he  evidently  ceased  to  think  it  ne 
cessary  to  play  the  hypocrite  with  me  any  longer. 

"  You  are  too  bold  a  fellow,"  he  said,  "  to  throw  away  your 
life  in  such  a  manner,  and  that,  too,  because  of  the  want  of  mon 
ey.  You  shall  have  money  —  as  much  as  you  wish  of  it;  and, 
I  take  it,  you  would  infinitely  prefer  shooting  him  who  has  it 
rather  than  yourself — " 

"Nay,  nay,  not  that  neither,  reverend  sir.  There's  some 
danger  of  being  hung  for  such  a  matter." 

"Not  if  you  have  money.  You  forget,  my  friend,  your  own 
principles.  You  said,  and  said  truly,  that  money  was  the  power 
which  made  virtue  and  opinion  take  all  shapes  among  men ; 
and,  when  this  is  the  case,  justice  becomes  equally  accommoda 
ting.  You  shall  have  this  money  —  you  shall  compel  this  opin 
ion  as  you  please,  so  that  you  may  do  what  you  please,  and  be 
safe  —  only  let  me  know  that  you  wish  this  knowledge." 

I  grasped  his  hand  violently. 

"  Ask  the  wretch  at  the  gallows  if  he  wishes  life,  and  the 
question  is  no  less  idle  than  that  which  you  put  to  me." 

"  Come  farther  back  from  the  river  —  some  of  these  boatmen 
may  be  pulling  about ;  and  such  matters  as  I  have  to  reveal, 
need  no  bright  blaze  like  that  which  gleams  upon  us  from  you 
forge.  That  wood  looks  dismal  enough  behind  us  —  let  us  go 
there." 

Thither  we  went;  and,  having  buried  ourselves  sufficiently 
among  the  thick  undergrowth  to  be  free  of  any  danger  of  dis 
covery  or  interruption,  he  began  the  narrative  which  follows ; 
and  which,  together  with  much  additional  but  unnecessary  mat 
ter,  I  have  abridged  to  my  own  limits  : — 

"  There  was  a  boy,"  said  he,  "  a  poor  boy  of  West  Tennessee, 
who  knew  no  parents,  and  had  no  friends  —  who  worked  for  hia 
bread  and  education,  such  as  it  was,  at  the  same  moment  —  and, 
ID  spite  of  all  his  labors,  found,  at  the  end  of  every  year,  after 


DEEPER   IN   THE   PLOT.  813 

casting  up  his  accounts,  that  lie  bad  gained  during  its  passage 
many  more  kicks  than  coppers." 

"  No  uncommon  fortune  in  a  country  like  ours." 

"  So  he  thought  it,"  continued  the  parson,  availing  himself  of 
my  interruption  —  "so  he  thought  it.  He  wasted  no  time  and 
feeling  in  idle  regrets  of  a  condition  which  he  found  was  rather 
more  general  than  grateful  to  mankind,  and  one  day  he  asked 
himself  how  many  years  he  was  willing  to  expend  in  trying  to 
get  a  living  in  an  honest  way?" 

"  Well,  a  reasonable  question.     What  answer  ]" 

"A  reasonable  one  —  like  the  question.  Life  is  short  even 
if  we  have  money,  said  he  to  himself;  but  we  have  no  life  at  all 
without  it.  Following  a  plough  gives  me  none  —  I  must  follow 
something  else." 

"  Well  ?" 

"  He  resolved  on  being  honest  no  longer." 

"  Indeed  !  But  how  could  he  put  his  resolution  into  effect  in 
a  country  like  ours,  where  we  are  inundated  with  so  much  pro 
fessional  virtue  ?" 

"  He  put  on  a  professional  cloak." 

"  Excellent." 

"  But,  though  commencing  a  new,  and,  as  it  proved,  a  profit 
able  business,  he  was  not  so  selfish  as  to  desire  a  monopoly  of 
it  ;  on  the  contrary,  a  little  reflection  suggested  to  him  a  grand 
idea,  which  was  evolved  by  the  very  natural  reflection  which 
you  made  just  now. 

"  What  was  that  ?" 

"  Simply,  that  his  condition  was  not  that  of  an  individual,  but 
of  thousands." 

"  Well,  that  is  a  truism.     What  could  he  make  of  that  ?" 

"  A  brotherhood." 


"  He  conceived  that,  if  there  were  thousands  in  his  condition, 
there  were  thousands  governed  by  his  feelings  and  opinions. 
We  all  have  a  family  likeness  in  our  hearts,  however  disguised 
by  habits,  manners,  education  ;  but  when  habits,  manners,  edu 
cation,  are  agreed,  and  to  these  is  added  a  prevailing  necessity, 
then  the  likeness  becomes  identity,  arid  the  boy  who,  on  reach 
ing  manhood,  resolved  to  be  no  longer  despicably  honest,  felt 


314  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

assured  that  his  resolve  could  be  made  the  resolves  of  all  wlio 
are  governed  by  his  necessities. 

"A  natural  reflection  enough  —  none  more  so." 

"  Accordingly,  his  chief  labor  was  that  of  founding  an  order 
—  a  brotherhood  of  those  who  have  learned  to  see,  in  the  prin 
ciples  which  ostensibly  govern  society,  a  nice  system  of  cob 
webs,  set  with  a  double  object,  as  snares  to  catch  and  enslave 
the  feeble  and  confiding,  and  defences  for  the  protection  of  the 
more  cunning  reptiles  that  sit  in  the  centre,  and  prey  at  ease 
upon  the  marrow  and  fat  of  the  toiling  insects  they  entangle." 

"  Such  is  certainly  a  true  picture  of  our  social  condition. 
Man  is  the  prey  of  man  —  the  weak  of  the  strong —  the  unwary 
of  the  cunning.  The  more  black,  the  more  bloated,  the  spider, 
the  closer  his  web,  and  the  greater  the  number  and  variety  of 
victims.  He  sits  at  ease,  and  they  plunge  incontinently  intt 
his  snare." 

Such  were  some  of  the  reflections  with  which  I  regaled  my 
companion.  lie  proceeded  with  increasing  earnestness. 

"  lie  travelled  through  all  the  slave  states  making  proselytes 
to  his  doctrine.  With  the  cassock  of  a  sanctified  profession, 
which  we  no  more  dare  assail  now  than  we  did  four  hundred 
years  ago,  he  made  his  way  not  only  at  little  or  no  expense, 
but  with  great  profit.  On  all  hands  he  found  friends  and  fol 
lowers —  men  ready  to  do  his  bidding  —  to  follow  him  in  all 
risks  —  to  undertake  all  sorts  of  offences,  and  in  every  respect 
to  be  the  instruments  of  his  will,  as  docile  and  dependent  as 
those  of  any  Oriental  despot  known  in  story.  His  followers 
soon  grew  numerous,  and  having  them  scattered  through  all  the 
slave  states,  and  some  of  the  free,  he  could  enumerate  more  than 
fifteen  hundred  men  ready  at  his  summons  and  sworn  to  his  al 
legiance." 

I  was  positively  astounded. 

"  But  you  are  not  serious  ?" 

"  As  much  so  as  at  a  camp-meeting.  There  is  not  an  atom 
of  the  best  certified  texts  of  scripture  more  true  than  what  I 
tell  you." 

"What!  fifteen  hundred  men — fifteen  hundred  in  these 
southern  states  professing  roguery  !" 

"  Nay,  not  professing  roguery  ;  there  you  are  harsh  in  youi 


DEEPER    IN    THE   PLOT.  315 

epithet.  Professing  religion,  la\v,  physic,  planting,  shopkeep- 
ing —  anything,  everything,  but  roguery.  They  practise 
roguery,  and  roguery  of  all  kinds,  I  grant  you,  but  no  profes 
sions  could  be  more  immaculate  than  theirs." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?"  My  wonder  could  not  be  concealed,  but  I 
contrived  to  mingle  in  some  delight  with  my  tones  of  astonish 
ment,  and  my  words  were  cautiously  adapted  to  second  my  af 
fectation  of  delight. 

"  Yes,"  he  continued,  "  by  the  overruling  influence  of  this 
boy,  as  I  may  call  him,  though  now  a  full-grown  man,  such  has 
become  the  spread  of  his  principles,  and  such  is  the  power 
which  he  wields.  Yet,  in  all  his  labors,  mark  me,  he  himself 
commits  no  act  of  injustice  with  his  «~,wn  hand.  He  manages, 
he  directs  others;  he  sets  the  spring  in  motion,  and  counsels 
the  achievement,  yet  no  blow  is  struck  by  his  hand.  He  is 
above  the  petty  details  of  his  own  plans,  and  leaves  to  other 
and  minor  spirits  the  task  of  executing  the  little  offices  bv 
which  the  grand  design  is  carried  out,  and  the  work  effected." 

"  Why,  this  man  is  a  genius." 

My  unaffected  expression  of  admiration  warmed  my  compan 
ion,  and  he  soon  convinced  me  not  only  that  he  had  all  the 
while  spoken  of  himself,  but  that  he  was  remarkably  sensitive 
on  the  subject  of  his  own  greatness.  Discovering  this  weakness, 
I  plied  him  by  oblique  flatteries  of  the  wonderful  person  whom 
he  had  described  to  me,  and  he  became  seemingly  almost  en 
tirely  unreserved  in  his  communications:.  He  related  at  large 
the,  history  of  the  clan  —  the  Mystic  Confederacy,  as  it  was 
termed  —  as  it  has  already  been  partially  narrated  to  the  read 
er  ;  and  my  horror  and  wonder  were  alike  increased  at  every 
step  in  his  progress.  I  could  no  longer  doubt  that  the  fellows 
who  murdered  William  Carrington  were  a  portion  of  the  same 
lawless  fraternity;  and  while  the  developments  of  my  new  ac 
quaintance  gave  me  fresh  hope  of  being  soon  able  to  encounter 
with  those  murderers,  they  opened  my  eyes  to  a  greater  field  of 
danger  and  difficulties  than  had  appeared  to  them  before.  But 
I  did  not  suffer  myself  to  indulge  in  apprehensive  musings,  and 
pressed  him  for  an  increase  of  knowledge  ;  taking  care,  at  my 
each  solicitation,  to  lard  my  inquiries  thick  with  oily  eulogies 
upon  the  great  genius  who  had  planned,  and  so  far  executed, 


316  RICHARD    I1URDIS. 

"  How  has  this  wonderful  man  contrived  to  evade  detection, 
or  suspicion  at  least?  It  is  not  easy  to  have  a  secret  kept, 
which  is  so  numerously  confided." 

"  That  is  on-e  of  the  beauties  of  his  scheme,  that  he  confides 
little  or  nothing  which  affects  himself,  and  he  secures  the 
alliance  and  obedience  of  those  only  who  have  secrets  of  their 
own  much  more  detrimental  to  them  if  made  public  than  could 
be  any  which  they  have  of  his.  His  art  consisted  simply  in 
seeking  out  those  who  had  secrets  of  a  dangerous  nature.  In 
finding  these  he  found  followers.  But,  though  he  has  not  al 
ways  escaped  suspicion  —  he  has  been  able  always  to  defy  it. 
Societies  have  been  formed,  schemes  laid,  companies  raised, 
and  juries  prompted,  to  catch  him  in  the  act,  but  all  in  vain. 
It  is  not  easy  to  entrap  a  man  who  has  an  emissary  in  every 
section  of  the  country.  The  most  active  secretaries  of  the  so 
cieties  were  his  creatures — the  schemes  have  been  reported 
him  as  soon  as  laid,  and  one  of  his  own  right-hand  men  has 
uiore  than  once  been  an  officer  of  the  company  sworn  to  keep 
watch  over  him  in  secret." 

"  Wonderful  man  !  —  and  what  does  he  design  with  all  this 
power?  To  rob  merely  —  to  procure  money  from  travellers 
upon  the  highway  —  would  not  seem  to  call  for  such  an  exten 
sive  association." 

"  Perhaps  not ! — but  he  has  other  purposes;  and  the  time 
will  come,  I  doubt  not,  when  his  performances  will,  in  no  re 
spect,  fall  short  of  the  power  which  he  will  employ  to  effect 
them.  When  I  tell  you  of  such  a  man,  you  see  at  once  that  he 
is  no  common  robber.  Why  should  he  confine  himself  to  the 
deeds  of  one  —  be  assured  he  will  not.  You  will  see — you  will 
hear  yet  of  his  performances,  and  I  tell  you  they  will  be  such 
that  the  country  will  ring  with  them  again." 

"He  must  be  a  man  of  great  ambition — he  should  be,  to 
correspond  with  the  genius  which  he  evidently  has  for  great 
achievements.  I  should  like  to  know — by  iny  soul,  but  I  could 
love  such  a  man  as  that." 

"You  shall  know  him  in  season — he  is  not  unwilling  to  be 
known  where  he  himself  knows  the  seeker,  but — " 

He  paused,  and  I  determined  upon  giving  my  hypocrisy  a 
crowning  virtue,  if  possible,  by  utterly  overmastering  his.  J 


DEEPER   IN   THE   PLOT.  817 

put  my  hand  upon  his  shoulder  suddenly,  and  looked  him  in 
llie  face,  saying  deliberately  at  the  same  time  :  — 

"  You  are  the  iruin  himself — I'll  swear  it." 

"  I  low  !"  he  exclaimed,  in  some  alarm  ;  and  I  could  see  that 
he  fumbled  in  his  bosom  as  if  for  a  weapon.  "  How  !  you  mean 
not  to  betray  me  ?" 

"Betray  you,  no.  I  honor  you  —  1  love  you.  Yon  have 
opened  a  road  to  me  —  you  have  given  me  light.  An  hour  ago 
and  I  was  the  most  hopeless,  benighted  wretch  under  heaven 
—  without  money,  without  the  means  of  getting  it,  and  fully 
resolved  on  putting  a  bullet  through  my  head.  You  have  saved 
my  life  —  you  have  saved  me." 

He  seized  my  hand  with  warmth. 

"  I  will  be  the  making  of  you,"  he  replied.  "  I  have  the 
whole  southwest  in  a  string,  and  have  only  to  pull  it  to  secure 
a  golden  draught.  You  shall  be  with  me  at  the  pulling." 

What  more  he  said  is  unnecessary  to  my  narrative,  though 
he  thought  it  all  important  to  his.  In  brief,  he  told  me  that  he 
had  concocted  his  present  schemes  for  a  space  of  more  than 
twenty  years  —  from  the  time  that  b*,  was  fifteen  years  of  age, 
and  he  was  now  full  thirty-five ;  showing  by  this,  a  commenda 
ble  perseverance  of  purpose,  which,  in  a  good  work  is  seldom 
shown,  and  which,  in  a  good  work  must  have  insured  to  any 
individual  a  most  triumphant  greatness.  We  did  not  separate 
that  night  until  he  had  sworn  me  a  member  of  the  "  Mystic 
Confederacy,"  and  given  me  a  dozen  signs  by  which  to  know 
my  brethren,  make  myself  known,  send  tidings  and  command 
assistance  —  acquisitions  which  I  shuddered  to  possess,  and  the 
consequences  of  which,  I  well  knew,  would  task  all  ray  skill 
imd  resolution  to  escape  and  evade. 


818  RICHARD    HURDIS. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

THB    TOO    CONSCIENTIOUS    BROTHER. 

"I  protest, 

Maugre  thy  strength,  youth,  place  and  eminence, 
Despight  thy  victor  sword,  and  fire  new  fortune, 
Thy  valor  and  thy  heart — thou  art  a  traitor." — King 

MY  thoughts,  in  my  berth  that  night,  were  oppressive  enough. 
I  ad  involved  myself  in  the  meshes  of  a  formidable  conspiracy, 
kiLi  was  now  liable  to  all  its  dangers.  It  mattered  not  to  the 
public  how  pure  were  my  real  purposes,  so  long  as  the  knowl 
edge  of  them  was  confined  only  to  myself.  The  consciousness 
of  virtue  may  be  a  sufficient  strengthener  of  one's  resolve,  but 
I  doubt  whether  it  most  usually  produces  a  perfect  feeling  of 
mental  quiet.  I  know  all  was  turmoil  in  my  brain  that  night. 
I  tossed  and  tumbled,  and  could  not  sleep.  Thought  was  busy, 
as,  indeed  she  had  need  be,  I  had  now  full  occasion  for  the 
exercise  of  all  my  wits.  To  entrap  the  black  and  bloated  spi 
ders  in  their  own  web  was  now  my  task  —  to  escape  from  it 
myself,  my  difficulty.  But  I  had  sworn  to  avenge  William 
Carrington ;  and  now,  with  a  less  selfish  feeling,  I  registered 
another  oath  in  heaven. 

In  my  next  conversation  with  the  parson,  who  gave  mr,  as 
l»is  name,  Clement  Foster,  though  1  doubt  not — indeed  1  after 
ward  discovered  —  that  he  had  twenty  other  names;  I  endeav 
ored,  with  all  my  art,  to  find  out  if  he  knew  anything  of  Web 
her  and  his  associates.  To  do  this  without  provoking  suspicion, 
was  a  task  requiring  the  utmost  caution.  To  a  certain  extent 
1  succeeded.  1  found  that  Webber  was  one  of  his  men,  but  I 
also  discovered  that  he  let  me  know  nothing  in  particular  — 
nothing,  the  development  of  which  might  materially  affect  his 
future  plans,  or  lead  to  the  discovery  of  his  past  projects.  J 


THE   TOO    CONSCIENTIOUS    BROTHER.  319 

was  evidently  regarded  as  one,  who,  however  well  estimated, 
was  yet  to  undergo  those  trials  which  always  precede  the  confi 
dence  of  the  wicked.  I  was  yet  required  to  commit  inyself,  be 
fore  I  could  be  recognised  in  a  fellowship  of  risk  and  profits 
with  them.  Foster  gave  me  to  know,  that  there  was  a  test  to 
which  I  would  be  subjected  —  a  test  depending  on  circumstan 
ces—not  arbitrary  —  and  my  full  and  entire  admission  to  the 
fraternity,  would  depend  on  the  manner  in  which  1  executed 
my  tusk. 

"  You  will  have  to  take  a  mail-bag,  or  shoot  an  obstinate  fel 
low,  who  has  more*money  than  brains,  through  the  head.  Our 
tasks  are  all  adapted  to  the  particular  characters  of  our  men. 
Gentlemen  bred,  and  of  good  education  and  fine  feelings,  will 
be  required  to  do  some  bold  action  :  our  common  rogues  and 
underlings  are  made  to  run  a  negro  from  his  master,  or  pick  a 
pocket  at  a  muster,  or  pass  forged  notes,  or  some  small  matter 
of  that  sort.  You,  however,  will  be  subjected  to  no  such  mean 
performances.  I  will  see  to  that." 

Here  was  consolation  with  a  vengeance  !  I  felt  my  check 
burn,  and  my  heart  bound  within  me  ;  but  I  was  on  the  plank, 
and  the  stern  necessity  schooled  me  so,  that  I  was  able  to  con 
ceal  all  my  emotion.  But  I  soon  found  that  there  were  other 
tests  for  me,  and  that  my  friendly  parson  was  not  yet  so  satis 
fied  that  my  virtue  was  of  the  desirable  complexion.  My 
brother-dandy  sought  me  out  one  day  before  we  reached  Co 
lumbus  :  — 

"I  see,"  said  lie,  confidentially,  "  that  parson  talking  with 
you  very  frequently  ;  and,  as  you  seem  to  listen  to  him  very 
respectfully,  I  think  it  only  an  act  of  friendship  to  put  you  on 
your  guard  against  him.  Between  us,  he's  a  great  rascal,  I'm 
<nore  than  certain.  I  know  him  to  be  a  hypocrite  ;  and  while 
[  was  last  in  Orleans,  there  was  a  man  advertised  for  passing 
forged  notes,  and  the  description  given  of  the  rogue  answers  to 
a  letter  the  appearance  of  this  fellow." 

I  thanked  him  for  his  kindness,  but  told  him  that  I  really 
thought  the  parson  a  very  good  man.  and  could  not  believe  that 
he  would  be  guilty  of  such  an  act  as  that  ascribed  to  him. 

"  You're  mistaken,"  said  lie  ;  "  you're  only  too  confiding,  and 
I'll  convince  you,  if  you'll  only  back  me  in  what  1  do.  Stand 


320  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

by  me,  and  I'll  charge  him  with  it  before  the  captain ;  and,  if 
so,  we'll  have  the  reward.  I'll  lay  my  life  his  pocket  is  full  of 
forged  bills  at  this  very  moment." 

I  answered  him  with  some  coolness,  and  more  indifference : 

"  I'm  no  informer,  sir,  and  do  not  agree  with  you  in  your 
ill  opinion  of  the  poor  man.  At  least,  I  have  seen  nothing  in 
his  conduct,  and  witnessed  nothing  in  his  deportment,  to  war 
rant  me  in  forming  any  such  suspicions.  He  may  have  forged 
notes  or  not,  for  me ;  I'll  not  trouble  him." 

The  fellow  went  off,  no  wise  discomfited,  and  I  heard  noth 
ing  more  of  his  accusation.  That  night  I  related  the  circum 
stance  to  Foster,  who  smiled  without  surprise,  and  then  said  to 
me  in  reply  — 

"  You  see  how  well  our  agents  work  for  us.  Haller  [that 
was  the  dandy's  name]  is  one  of  our  men.  He  knew  from  me  of 
what  we  had  spoken,  and  proposed  to  try  you.  It  is  no  small 
pleasure  to  find  you  so  faithful  to  your  engagements." 

In  this  way,  and  by  the  practice  of  the  most  unrelaxing  cun 
ning,  I  fully  persuaded  Foster  of  my  integrity  —  if  1  may  use 
that  word  in  such  relation.  Hour  after  hour  gave  me  new  rev 
elations  touching  the  grand  fraternity  —  the  "  Mystic  Brother 
hood" —  into  the  bosom  of  which  I  was  now  to  be  received; 
and  of  the  doings  and  the  capacities  of  which  Foster  spoke  at 
large  and  with  all  the  zest  of  the  truest  paternity.  After  re 
peated  conferences  had  seemed  to  assure  him  of  my  fidelity,  he 
proceeded  to  reveal  a  matter  which,  in  the  end,  proved  of  more 
importance  to  my  pursuit  than  all  tbe  rest  of  his  revelations. 

"  We  have  quarterly  and  occasional  meetings  of  our  choice 
spirits,  who  are  few  in  number,  and  one  of  these  meetings  is  at 
hand.  We  meet  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Sipsy  swamp,  on 
the  road  from  Columbus  to  Tuscaloosa,  where  we  have  a  famous 
hiding-place,  which  has  heard,  and  kept  too,  many  a  pretty 
secret.  We  have  a  conference  to  which  twenty  or  more  will 
be  admitted,  who  will  report  their  proceedings  in  western  Ala 
bama.  There  will  be  several  new  members,  like  yourself,  who 
are  yet  in  their  noviciate ;  but  none,  I  am  persuaded,  who  will 
go  through  their  trial  half  so  well  as  yourself." 

"  What !  the  stopping  the  mail,  or  shooting  the  traveller  ?" 
«  Yes — 'tis  that  I  mean.     Yoa  will  do  your  duty,  I  doubt  not 


THE   TOO    CONSCIENTIOUS   BROTHER.  321 

There  is  another  business  which  we  have  on  hand,  which  is  of 
some  importance  to  our  interests.  It  is  hinted  that  one  of  oar 
leading  confederates  —  a  fine  young  fellow,  who  committed  an 
error,  and  joined  us  in  consequence  a  year  ago  —  is  about  to 
play  the  traitor,  or  at  least  fly  the  track." 

"Ah,  indeed!  and  how  do  you  punish  such  an  offence?" 

"  How,  but  by  death  '?  Our  very  existence  as  a  society,  and 
safety  as  men,  depend  upon  the  severity  which  we  visit  upon 
the  head  of  the  traitor,  lie  must  die  —  that  is,  if  the  offence  be 
proved  against  him." 

"  What !  you  give  him  a  trial,  then  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  not  by  jury  :  no  such  folly  for  us  !  We  put  on  the 
track  of  the  offender  some  two  or  three  of  our  most  trusty  con 
federates,  who  take  note  of  all  his  actions,  and  are  empowered 
with  authority  to  put  the  law  in  force  without  further  reference 
to  us.  I  will  try  and  get  you  upon  this  commission,  as  your 
first  trial  before  we  invest  you  with  our  orders.  JIaller  will 
most  probably  be  your  associate  in  this  bush  <-ss.  He  brings 
the  report  of  the  suspected  treason,  and  it  is  oi.r  custom  to  em 
ploy  in  such  a  business  those  persons  who  have  the  clue  already 
in  their  hands.  Haller  has  some  prejudice  against  Eberly ; 
there  have  been  words  between  them,  and  Eberly,  who  is  a  fel 
low  of  high  spirit,  got  the  better  of  him,  and  treats  him  with 
some  contempt." 

"  Will  there  not  be  some  danger  of  Ilaller's  abusing  the  trust 
you  give  him,  then,  and  making  its  powers  subservient  to  his 
feelings  of  personal  hostility  ?" 

"  Possibly ;  but  llaller  knows  our  penalty  for  that  offence, 
and  will  scarcely  venture  to  incur  it.  Besides,  I  fear  there  is 
some  ground  for  his  charges :  I  have  heard  some  matters  about 
Eberly  myself  which  were  suspicious." 

"Eberly!"  said  I,  "where  did  I  hear  that  name  before?  I 
have  surely  heard  it  somewhere." 

"  Not  unlikely  :  I  know  several  Eberlys  in  Georgia  and  Ala- 
abama ;  it's  not  a  very  uncommon  name,  though  still  not  a  com 
mon  one." 

The  consciousness  of  the  next  instant  made  my  cheek  burn. 
I  remembered  hearing  the  name  of  Eberly  uttered  by  one  of 
the  banditti,  while  I  lay  bound  in  the  hovel  of  Matthew  Web 


322  RICHARD    HUKDTS. 

bor ;  and  then  it  appeared  to  me  in  language  which  was  dispar 
aging.  Things  were  beginning  to  fit  themselves  strangely  to 
gether  before  my  eyes ;  and  when  the  parson  left  me,  to  retire 
to  his  berth,  I  was  soon  lost  in  a  wilderness  of  musing. 

We  soon  reached  and  landed  at  Columbus  —  a  wild-looking 
and  scattered  settlement,  at  that  time,  of  some  thirty  families, 
within  a  mile  of  the  Tombeckbe.  We  proceeded  boldly  to  the 
tavern  —  our  parson  leading  the  way;  and  never  was  prayer 
more  earnest  and  seemingly  unaffected  than  that  which  he  put 
up  at  the  supper-table  that  night.  He  paid  amply  for  his  bacon 
and  greens  by  his  eloquence.  He  tendered  no  other  form  of 
pay  —  nor,  indeed,  did  any  seem  to  be  desired. 

The  next  morning  it  was  arranged  between  us  that  we  should 
all  meet  at  a  spot  a  little  above  the  ford  at  Coal-Fire  creek  — 
a  distance  of  some  thirty  miles  from  Columbus,  and  on  the  di 
rect  route  to  Tuscaloosa.  But  here  a  difficulty  lay  in  my  way 
which  had  been  a  source  of  annoyance  to  me  for  the  three  days 
past.  I  had  no  horse,  and  had  declared  to  Foster  my  almost 
absolute  want  of  money.  To  proceed  on  my  mission,  it  was 
necessary  to  procure  one,  and,  if  possible,  a  good  one ;  and  how 
to  do  this  while  Foster  stayed,  was  a  disquieting  consideration. 
Hut  he  was  too  intent  upon  securing  his  new  associate,  and  not 
less  intent  upon  his  old  business,  to  suffer  this  to  remain  a  diiii- 
ctihy  long. 

"  You  must  buy  a  horse  in  Columbus,  Williams  (that  was  the 
name  I  had  set  out  with  from  Mobile) ;  you  can  not  get  on  with 
out  one.  As  you  have  no  money,  I  must  help  you,  and  you  can 
repay  rne  after  you  have  struck  your  first  successful  blow.  Here 
are  a  couple  of  hundred  dollars  —  bills  of  the  bank  of  Mobile  — 
counterfeit,  it  is  true,  but  good  here  as  the  bank  itself.  There's? 
an  old  fellow  here  —  old  General  Cocke  —  that  has  several  nags  ; 
you  can  possibly  get  one  from  him  that  will  do  you  good  ser 
vice,  and  not  cost  you  so  much,  neither.  Go  to  him  at  once  and 
get  your  creature  :  you'll  find  me  to-morrow  noon  at  the  creek, 
just  as  I  tell  you.  Set  up  a  psalm-tune,  if  you  can,  even  as  you 
reach  the  creek,  and  you'll  hear  some  psalmody  in  return  that 
will  do  your  heart  good." 

He  left  me,  followed  by  Haller,  and  I  took  a  short  mode  foi 
getting  rid  of  the  counterfeit  bills  he  gave  me.  I  destroyed 


THE  TOO   CONSCIENTIOUS  BROTHER.  323 

them  in  my  fire  tlint  night,  ami,  taking  the  necessary  sum  from 
my  own  treasury,  I  proceeded  to  procure  my  horse,  which  I 
found  no  difficulty  in  doing,  and  at.  a  moderate  price,  though 
General  Cocke  had  \one  to  sell.  I  bought  from  another  person, 
whom  I  did  not  know. 

Being  so  far  ready,  I  took  a  careful  examination  of  my  pistols, 
procured  me  an  extra  knife  of  large  size  in  Columbus,  and  com 
mending  myself  to  Providence  with  a  prayer  mentally  littered, 
as  earnest  as  any  which  1  ever  made  either  before  or  since,  I 
set  oil'  for  the  place  of  meeting,  which  I  readied  about  sunset. 
Though  nothing  of  a  psalm-singer,  1  yet  endeavored  to  avail 
myself  of  the  suggestion  of  Foster,  and  accordingly  set  up  a 
monotonous  stave,  after  the  whining  fashion  of  the  methodists 
of  that  region;  and  was  answered  with  a  full  burst  of  the  same 
sort  of  melody,  of  unsurpassable  volume,  proving  the  lungs  of 
the  faithful  whom  I  sought,  to  be  of  the  most  muliseased  com 
plexion.  I  was  immediately  joined  by  Foster  and  three  other 
persons,  among  whom  I  felt  a  spontaneous  movement  of  pleas 
ure  in  my  bosom  as  I  recognised  the  features  of  Matthew  Web 
ber.  Hut  it  was  the  pleasure  of  the  hunter,  who,  having  his 
ritie  lifted,  discovers  the  wolf  at  the  entrance  of  the  den.  It 
relieved  me  from  many  apprehensions  to  lincl  that  Webber, 
though  looking  at  me.  with  some  attention,  did  so  without  seem 
ing  to  recognise  me.  This  was  an  earnest  of  success  in  mv  pur 
suit  which  cheered  me  not  a  little  in  my  onward  progress. 

We  entered  their  hiding-place  together,  where,  in  a  leafy 
cover  that  might  have  been  used  by  innumerable  tribes  of  bears 
and  foxes  before,  we  found  our  supper  and  a  tolerable  lodgment 
for  the  night.  There  we  slept,  though  not  till  some  hours  had 
been  spent  in  conversation  touching  a  thousand  plans  of  villany, 
which  astounded  me  to  hear,  but  to  which  I  was  compelled  not 
only  to  give  heed,  but  satisfaction.  But  little  of  their  dialogue 
interested  me  in  my  pursuit.  To  some  parts  of  it,  however,  I 
lent  an  ear  of  excited  attention.  Webber  spoke  of  Eberly  ; 
and  though  I  could  not  understand  much  of  the  matter  he  re 
ferred  to,  yet  there  was  an  instinct  in  my  mind  that  made  me 
nervous  while  the  discussion  continued,  and  melancholy  long 
after  it  was  over.  To  me  was  the  task  to  be  assigned  of  pur 
suing  this  young  man,  of  spying  into  his  conduct,  and  reporting 


324  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

and  punishing  his  return  to  the  paths  of  virtue.  Not  to  do  thii 
work  faithfully  to  those  who  sent  me,  was  to  incur  his  risk :  and 
this  was  a  position  into  which,  with  my  eyes  open,  I  had  gone 
of  my  own  head. 

It  was  no  small  addition  to  my  annoyance,  that,  in  prosecu 
ting  the  search  into  Eberly's  conduct,  I  was  ministering  to  the 
mean  malice  of  Haller  and  the  open  hate  of  Matthew  Webber. 
But  there  was  no  room  for  hesitation  now.  I  was  to  go  for 
ward,  or  fall.  My  hope,  as  Avell  as  purpose,  was  for  the  best; 
my  resolution  to  do  nothing  wrong.  My  task  was  to  steer  wide 
of  injury  to  others,  and  of  risk  to  myself — no  easy  task,  with 
so  many  villains  around  me.  A  sentence  or  two  of  the  dialogue 
which  so  interested  me  may  be  well  enough  repeated  here.  It 
will  be  supposed  that  what  was  said  must  have  had  the  effect  of 
lifting  the  destined  youth  in  my  consideration  :  it  certainly 
placed  him  in  a  more  favorable  light  than  could  well  be  claimed 
for  one  found  in  such  a  connection. 

"He  is  become  too  melancholy  for  any  business  at  all,"  said 
Webber,  "  and  least  of  all  for  such  a  business  as  ours.  Set  him 
to  watch  for  a  traveller,  and  he  plays  with  the  leaves,  twists 
the  vines  round  his  finger,  writes  in  the  sand,  and  sighs  all  the 
while  as  if  his  heart  were  breaking." 

"  Why,  he  has  suffered  himself  really  to  fall  in  love  with  the 
girl !"  exclaimed  Foster.  "  What  an  ass  !" 

"  So  he  is;  and  that  is  perhaps  his  chief  offence,  since  a  man 
who  is  an  a.ss  can  never  be  a  good  knave  —  certainly  never  a 
successful  one,"  was  the  reply  of  Webber. 

"True  enough,  Matthew,"  said  Foster,  "but  this  is  the  poor 
fellow's  misfortune.  In  this  condition  he  can  do  nothing  for 
himself  any  more  than  for  us.  Will  he  marry  the  girl  ?" 

"If  he  can." 

••And  can  he  not?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  he  may  —  he  might  if  he  could  keep  his  secret 
But  it  is  my  fear  that  he  can  not  keep  his  secret.  His  heart 
has  got  the  better  of  his  head  —  his  conscience  of  his  necessi 
ties  ;  and  these  gloomy  fits  which  he  has  now  so  constantly  not 
only  make  him  neglectful  of  our  interests  and  his  duties,  but 
will,  1  arn  dubious,  precipitate  him  into  some  folly  which  will  be 
the  undoing  of  all  of  UP.  You  know  the  laws,  Clement  Foster  • 


THE   TOO    CONSCIENTIOUS   BROTHER.  325 

don't  you  think  he  could  get  clear  of  justice,  by  telling  all  he 
knows  about  us  ?" 

"Pshaw!  what  does  he  know?  and  who  would  believe  him, 
unless  he  gave  us  up  to  justice — unless  he  brought  the  hounds 
to  our  cover? — and  even  that  would  do  little,  unless  he  could 
point  out  and  prove  particular  acts.  What  does  he  know  of 
i»e,  or  you  ?  We  could  prove  him  a  liar  by  a  cloud  of  witnes 
ses  whom  he  never  saw,  who  could  go  into  court  and  swear 
everything." 

"  True  enough ;  but  that  we  should  get  clear  does  not  do 
away  with  his  offence,  should  he  endeavor  to  involve  us." 

"By  no  means  —  but  wherefore  should  he  seek  to  do  so?  — 
what  could  be  his  object  ?  Ills  own  exposure  follows,  or,  in 
deed,  precedes  ours ;  and  for  a  man  to  prove  himself  a  knave, 
merely  to  show  that  his  neighbor  is  just  as  bad,  is  thrice-sodden 
folly." 

"  Well,  such  is  always  your  conscientious  fool." 

"  But  Eberly  is  a  fool  of  love,  Mat,  and  not  of  conscience." 

"And  fools  of  love,  Foster,  are  very  apt  to  be  fools  of  con 
science." 

"By  no  means:  they  arc  the  greatest  knaves  in  the  wido 
world,  and  worse  hypocrites  than  a  pork-eating  parson  !  They 
lie  or  do  anything  to  get  the  woman  ;  for  passion  was  never  yet 
a  moralist." 

"Well  —  I  don't  know  —  but  Eberly  has  done  nothing  for 
some  time  past.  He  has  let  several  matters  slip  through  his 
fingers.  There  was  an  affair  —  only  two  weeks  ago  —  that 
nearly  swamped  us  all,  from  his  not  coining  according  to 
promise." 

"What  affair?  something  I  have  not  heard  of?" 

"  Yes.  There  were  two  larks  that  were  hitched  at  my  nouse, 
or  rather  that  we  tried  to  hitch.  One  of  them  got  out  of  the 
noose,  and  thumped  Breton  over  his  mazzard  so  that  the  bridge 
of  his  nose  is  broken  down  for  ever.  lie  got  off  as  far  as  the 
'Day  Blind,'  and  there  was  tumbled  by  a  stranger  —  a  fellow 
that  we  sent  after,  and  made  sure  of.  I  told  you  something 
already  of  the  matter." 

Here  was  something  to  confound  me.  Webber  evidently  al 
luded  to  the  affair  of  William  and  myself  yet  he  spoke  of  my 


526  RICHARD    HURDIS 

friend  being  killed  by  a  stranger.  I  was  confused  and  bewil 
dered  by  the  new  position  of  events,  but  was  quite  too  awk 
wardly  placed  to  venture  any  questions  on  so  dangerous  a  topic. 
They  proceeded  in  their  dialogue:  — 

"All  this  comes  of  his  passion  for  the  girl.  When  they  are 
once  married,  you'll  see  that  he'll  recover." 

•'  If  1  thought  so,  by  God,  it  would  please  me  the  best  of  all 
things.  It  would  do  my  heart  good  to  sing  it  in  the  ears  of  her 
insolent  father,  that  his  daughter  was  the  wife  of  a  public  rob 
ber —  a  thief  of  the  highway  !" 

"  So,  so,  Mat !  Don't,  I  pray  you,  disparage  our  profession  ! 
Tenderly,  tenderly  —  no  nicknaming  —  and  have  done  with  your 
malice.  Malice  is  a  base,  bad  quality,  and  I  heartily  despise 
your  fellows  who  treasure  up  inveterate  prejudices.  They  are 
always  a  yellow-souled,  snakish  set,  that  poison  themselves 
with  the  secretions  of  their  own  venom.  Now,  for  my  part,  I 
have  no  hates,  no  prejudices:  if  I  have  anything  to  thank 
Heaven  for,  it  is  possessions  of  a  better  sort  than  this.  My 
chickens  lay  better  eggs,  and  hatch  no  vipers." 

A  pretty  sentiment  enough  for  a  rogue  and  hypocrite !  lint 
of  what  strange  contradictions  are  we  compounded  !  The  dia 
logue  was  soon  brought  to  a  close  :  — 

"  It  is  understood,  then,"  said  Foster,  "that  llallcr  and  Wil 
liams"  (meaning  me)  "  are  to  watch  his  motions,  and  see  that 
he  keeps  in  traces.  Are  these  two  enough,  or  shall  we  put  a 
third  with  them  ?" 

"Quite  enough  to  follow  and  to  punish, though  it  is  well  that 
we  should  all  note  his  movements,  ami  watch  him  when  we  can. 
Does  Mr.  Williams  know  the  extent  of  his  power  ?"  demanded 
Webber,  turning  to  me. 

"Ay,"  was  the  reply  of  Foster;  "  lio  knows  that  he  line 
power  to  adjudge,  and  execute  even  to  di  ;ith  ;  but  1  would  beg 
him  to  recollect  that  he  must  award  with  ^iroat  caution  Against 
a  confederate.  An  unjust  punishment  incurs  similar  judgment ; 
and  we  are  prompt  to  avenge  an  injury  done  t«>  one  of  our  com 
rades.  I  would  not  have  him  too  precipitate  \\  5th  Eberly :  he 
is  a  fellow  of  good  qualities;  he  is  bold  as  a  lion  —  gencruud 
to  the  last  sixpence — " 

''And  a  little  too  conscientious,  you  should  add,"  wue  tiie  is»- 


THE   TOO    CONSC1ENTIOOS   BROTHER. 

terruption  of  Webocr  — "  a  little  too  conscientious.  "We  were 
a  few  thousand  dollars  the  richer,  but  for  that." 

"Ah,  you  mistake,  Matthew;  he  was  busy  making  love,  and 
had  holyday  Let  him  but  become  a  husband,  and  you'll 
then  see  how  constant  he  will  be  —  in  his  absence  from  home." 

Here  the  conversation  ended  for  tV« 


RICHARD    HUBDT& 


OHA^TER   XLVI. 

DESPAIR    OF    THE   WEAK    BROTHER. 

The  drunkard  after  all  his  lavish  cups 
Is  dry,  and  then  is  sober;  so,  at  length, 
When  you  awake  from  the  lascivious  dream 
Repentance  then  will  follow,  like  the  sting 
Placed  in  the  adder's  tail." — White  Devil. 

THE  next  morning,  before  it  was  yet  dawn,  Foster  aroused 
me  where  I  was  sleeping  beneath  my  green-wood  tree. 

"  We  must  be  stirring,  Williams ;  I  have  tidings  from  some 
of  our  friends  in  Tuscaloosa,  who  appoint  to  meet  me  to-morrow 
noon,  at  the  Sipsy.  We  have  a  snug  place  in  the  River  Swamp, 
more  secure  and  comfortable  even  than  this ;  and  we  shall  no 
doubt  meet  many  of  our  friends.  There,  too,  you  must  keep  a 
bright  look  out,  for  you  will  there  see  Eberly,  and  your  watch 
must  begin  from  the  moment  you  encounter  him." 

I  arose  with  no  very  comfortable  feelings  at  this  assurance. 
I  was  to  begin  the  labors  of  the  spy.  Well !  my  hand  was  in 
for  it,  and  it  was  no  time  to  look  back.  I  must  on,  with  what 
feeling  it  mattered  little  to  those  around  me;  and,  having  gone 
BO  far,  perhaps  but  little  to  myself.  I  strove,  as  well  as  I  might, 
to  shake  off  my  sombre  feelings  —  certainly  to  conceal  their 
expression.  Foster  did  not  seem  to  heed  my  taciturnity.  If 
he  did,  he  did  not  suffer  me  to  see  that  he  remarked  it ;  but 
playfully  and  even  wittily  remarking  upon  the  sluggish  move 
ments  of  our  companions,  Webber  included,  to  whom  early 
rising  seemed  an  annoyance,  he  led  the  way,  and  we  were  all 
soon  mounted  and  on  our  journey.  It  was  near  noon  when  we 
reached  our  place  of  destination,  and  such  a  place !  Imagine 
for  yourself,  a  thousand  sluices  over  a  low  boggy  ground  run 
ning  into  one,  which,  in  time,  overflowing  its  channels  sluicei 


DESPAIR   OF   THE   WEAK    BROTHER.  329 

all  the  country  round  it,  and  you  have  some  faint  idea  of  the 
borders  of  the  Sipsy  River.  Nothing  could  we  see  but  a  turbid 
yellow  water,  that  ran  in  among  the  roots  of  the  trees,  spread 
itself  all  around  for  miles,  forming  a  hundred  little  currents, 
some  of  which  were  quite  as  rapid  as  a  mill-race.  The  road 
was  lost  in  the  inundation ;  and  but  that  our  men  were  well 
acquainted  with  the  region,  we  should  have  been  drowned  — 
our  horses  at  least  —  in  the  numerous  bays  and  bogs  which  lay 
everywhere  before  us.  Even  among  our  party  a  guide  was 
necessary  —  and  one  who  understood  the  route  better  than  the 
rest  was  singled  out  to  lead  the  way.  For  a  time  we  seemed 
utterly  lost  in  the  accumulating  pits  and  ponds,  crossing  cur 
rents  and  quagmires  in  which  our  path  was  soon  involved,  and 
I  could  easily  conjecture  the  anxiety  of  our  company  from  the 
general  silence  which  they  kept.  But  our  guide  was  equal  to 
the  task,  and  we  soon  found  ourselves  upon  a  high  dry  island,  • 
within  a  few  yards  of  the  opposite  shore,  which,  when  we 
reached,  Foster  throwing  himself  with  an  air  of  satisfaction 
from  his  horse,  proclaimed  it  our  present  resting-place.  Here 
we  were  joined  by  a  man  whom  I  had  not  seen  before,  who 
had  been  awaiting  us,  and  who  brought  letters  to  Foster. 
Some  of  these,  from  Mobile,  New  Orleans,  Montgomery,  and 
Tuscaloosa,  he  was  pleased  to  show  me  ;  and  their  contents 
contributed  not  a  little  to  confound  me,  as  they  developed  the 
large  extent  of  the  singular  confederacy,  of  which  I  was  held  a 
member.  Some  of  the  plans  contained  in  these  letters  were  of 
no  less  startling  character.  One,  which  was  dwelt  on  with  some 
earnestness  by  two  of  the  writers  was  a  simultaneous  robbery 
of  all  the  banks. 

"  A  good  proposition  enough,"  was  the  quiet  remark  of 
Foster,  passing  his  finger  over  the  paragraphs — "had  they  in 
money  but  one-tenth  part  of  the  amount  which  they  have  in 
paper.  But  to  empty  vaults  which  have  no  specie,  is  little  to 
my  taste.  I  should  soon  put  a  stop  to  specie  payments,  without 
rendering  necessary  an  act  of  Congress.  Here  now,  is  some 
thing  infinitely  more  profitable,  but  far  more  dangerous.  We 
shall  consider  this." 

He  pointed  out  to  me  nnnilirr  *r.;j-;-T<r!un  cf  i!;c  writer  which 
seemed  to  have  been  debated  upon  before — the  atrociousnesi 


880  RICHARD   TTURDIS. 

of  which  curdled  my  blood  to  read.  I  could  scarcely  projose 
the  question. 

"But  you  will  hardly  act  upon  this  —  it  is  too  — " 

I  was  about  to  say  horrible  —  it  was  well  I  did  not.  Foster 
fortunately  finished  the  sentence  for  me  in  a  different  manner. 

"  Too  dangerous  you  would  say  !  It  would  be  to  a  blunderer. 
But  we  should  be  off  the  moment  it  was  over.  Having  made 
use  of  the  torch,  we  should  only  stay  long  enough  to  take  what 
was  valuable  from  the  house,  arid  not  wait  until  it  had  tumbled 
upon  us.  But  this  matter  is  not  yet  ready.  We  have  business, 
scarcely  less  profitable,  to  be  seen  to,  and  three  days  more  may 
give  us  a  noble  haul.  See  to  this.  Here  I  am  advised  by  a 
sure  friend  at  Washington,  that  a  large  amount  of  government 
money  is  on  its  way  for  the  Choctaws  —  it  will  not  be  my  fault 
if  they  get  it.  That  is  worth  some  pains-taking — but — " 

He  paused  and  folded  up  his  papers.  The  tramp  of  steeds 
was  heard  plashing  through  the  in  ire  and  approaching  the 
island.  "Webber  was  next  heard  in  conversation  with  the  new 
comers,  whose  voices  now  reached  us  distinctly.  Foster  ad 
dressed  me  as  he  heard  them  in  suppressed  tones  and  with  a 
graver  manner. 

"That's  Eberly's  voice,"  he  said — "you  must  look  to  him, 
Williams.  From  this  moment  do  not  lose  him  from  your  sight 
till  you  can  report  on  his  conduct  decisively.  Here  is  Haller 
coming  toward  us.  He  has  heard  of  Eberly's  approach  and 
like  yourself  will  be  on  the  watch.  Let  me  say  to  you  that 
Haller  will  report  of  you  as  narrowly  as  he  does  of  Eberly. 
He  does  not  know  you  yet,  and  has  no  such  confidence  in  you 
as  I  have.  I  know  that  you  will  fear  nothing  that  he  can 
report ;  and  yet,  that  my  judgment  may  not  suffer  in  the  esti 
mation  of  our  people,  I  should  be  better  pleased  if  you  could 
outwatch  your  comrade." 

I  made  out  to  say — "  Trust  me — you  have  no  need  of  appre 
hension.  I  will  do  my  best  at  least." 

"  Enough,"  said  he, — "  he  comes.  Poor  fellow,  he  looks  sick 
— unhappy !" 

This  was  said  in  an  under-tone,  as  if  in  soliloquy,  and  the 
next  moment,  the  person  spoken  of,  emerging  from  the  shade  of 
a  bush  which  stood  between  himself  and  me,  came  full  in  ny 


DESPAIR   OF    THE    WEAK    BROTHER.  331 

sight  "What  was  my  astonishment  and  misery  to  beheld  in 
him,  the  young  man  Clifton,  introduced  to  me  by  Colonel  Graf- 
ton,  and,  as  I  feared,  the  accepted  lover  of  his  daughter.  I  was 
rooted  to  the  spot  with  surprise  and  horror,  and  could  scarcely 
recover  myself  in  time  to  meet  his  approach.  A  desperate 
resolve  enabled  me  to  do  this,  and  when  he  drew  nigh,  I  was 
introduced  to  him  as  "  one  of  us"  by  Foster.  Clifton,  or  as  I 
shall  continue  to  call  him  Eberly,  scarcely  gave  me  a  look. 
His  eyes  never  once  met  either  Foster's  or  my  own.  He  was 
p.ile  and  looked  care-worn.  With  a  haggard  smile,  he  listened 
to  the  kind  yet  hypocritical  compliments  of  Foster,  but  uttered 
nothing  in  reply.  Other  persons  now  began  momentarily  to 
arrive,  and  by  night  our  number  was  increased  to  twenty-five 
or  thirty.  I  underwent  the  fraternal  hug,  with  all  the  old  vil 
lains,  and  some,  five  noviciates  like  myself;  and,  in  a  varied 
discussion  of  such  topics  as  burglary,  horse  and  negro  stealing, 
forging,  mail-robbing  and  various  other  similarly  innocent  em 
ployments,  we  contrived  to  pass  over  the  hours  without  discord 
or  monotony  until  the  coming  on  of  night  put  our  proprietors 
in  mind  of  supper.  I  need  not  dwell  upon  any  of  the  plans 
and  purposes  of  crime,  in  particular,  which  underwent  discus 
sion  on  that  occasion,  since  none  of  them  will  affect  very  ma 
terially  my  own  narrative.  It  is  enough  for  me  to  affirm  that 
among  these  members  of  the  Mystic  Brotherhood,  crime  of  all 
sorts  and  complexions,  seemed  reduced  to  a  perfect  system,  and 
the  hands  which  ministered  seemed  to  move  rather  like  those 
of  automata  than  of  thinking  and  resolving  men.  At  supper  I 
sat  opposite  to  Eberly  —  my  eye  was  fixed  upon  him  all  the 
while,  and  my  recognition  of  him,  as  the  lover  of  the  poor 
Julia,  fully  reconciled  me  to  the  task  I  had  undertaken,  of  con 
victing  him  of  treason  to  his  associates.  His  treason  to  beauty 
—  to  innocence  —  to  hospitality,  and  confiding  friendship  — 
made  my  otherwise  odious  duty  a  grateful  one ;  and  I  felt  a 
malignant  sort  of  pleasure,  as  I  watched  my  victim,  to  think 
that  his  punishment  lay  in  my  own  hands.  And  yet,  while  I 
looked  upon  him,  I  felt  at  moments,  my  heart  sink  and  sicken 
within  me.  I  somehow  began  to  doubt  how  far  he  could  be 
guilty  —  hoAv  far  he  could  be  guilty  with  these — how  far  guilty 
to  her  ?  He  ate  nothing,  and  looked  very  pale  and  wretched 


832  RICHARD  iiuunis. 

flis  spirit  seemed  anywhere  but  with  liis  associates  —  and 
though  his  eye  acknowledged  every  address,  and  his  tongue 
replied  to  every  demand,  yet  it  was  evident  enough  that  there 
was  a  lack  of  mental  consciousness  —  an  abstractedness  of  mood 
and  thought,  which  left  it  doubtful  when  he  spoke  whether  he 
was  altogether  assured  of  the  words  he  uttered,  or  of  those  ho 
heard. 

After  supper  our  chief  rogues  renewed  the  discussion  of  sun 
dry  of  their  plans,  arid  for  a  while  the  curiosity  which  I  felt  at 
the  strangeness  of  some  of  their  propositions,  and  the  stories 
of  their  several  achievements,  half  reconciled  me  to  listen  to 
their  heinousness.  But  there  was  quite  too  much  of  it  in  the 
end  —  a  still-beginning,  never-ending  repetition  of  the  same 
business,  only  varied  by  the  acting  persons,  place,  and  time ; 
and,  following  the  lead  of  Webber  and  one  or  two  others,  I 
went  aside  to  the  fire  which  Haller  had  kindled  up,  and  under 
a  tent  of  bark,  I  housed  myself  for  the  night.  I  did  riot  hope 
for  sleep,  for  my  mind  was  full  of  troublesome  thoughts,  yet  I 
Avas  surprised  by  the  feather-footed  visitant,  and  slept  soundly 
for  a  space  of  two  hours.  I  was  awakened  by  some  one  sha 
king  me  by  the  shoulder,  and,  starting  to  my  feet,  found  my 
comrade  Haller  standing  beside  me. 

"  Get  up,"  he  said,  "  it's  time  to  look  after  Ebcrly.  He  has 
gone  out  into  the  bushes,  having  left  Webber  whom  he  slept 
with.  He  thought  Mat  was  asleep,  and  stole  off.  We  must  get 
on  his  trail  and  see  what  he's  after." 

I  obeyed  and  we  went  together  with  great  caution  to  the 
rude  tent  in  which  Webber  slept.  He  gave  us  some  directions, 
and  following  them  we  soon  found  our  man.  He  had  gone  to 
the  place  where  Foster  slept  alone  —  a  bushy  dell  of  the  woods 
scooped  out  sufficiently  to  enable  one,  by  crawling  through  a 
narrow  mouth  to  secure  an  easy,  though  perhaps  confined,  couch 
within.  The  greater  apertures  made  by  torn  branches  or 
fallen  leaves  were  supplied  by  sapplings  hewn  from  neighbor 
ing  places,  and  twisted  in  with  the  native  growth  of  the  spot; 
and  with  the  aid  of  some  rushes,  a  blanket  and  a  good  warm 
watch-coat,  Foster  had  a  tenement  which  art  could  scarcely 
have  made  warmer,  though  in  social  respects,  it  certainly  miglil 
have  undergone  considerable  improvement. 


DESPAIR   OF   THE   WEAK   BROTHER.  383 

We  readied  a  spot  within  hearing  distance  of  this,  in  suffi 
cient  time  to  note  the  first  approaches  of  Eberly  to  its  inmate. 
Foster  came  forth  at  his  summons,  and  as  my  eye  turned  upon 
the  course  which  they  took  together,  Haller  touched  my  arm. 
When  I  turned,  I  beheld  Webber  also  standing  beside  us,  who, 
taking  Haller  Avith  him,  proceeded  cautiously  to  an  opposite 
point,  where  it  seems  they  expected  the  *.wo  to  go,  Webber 
giving  me  instructions  to  follow  them  cautiously  from  where  I 
stood;  by  which  division  of  our  force,  he  seemed  resolute  that 
one  of  us  should  succeed  in  our  espionage.  The  several  fires 
of  the  party  were  nearly  extinguished.  But  there  was  still  light 
enough  to  enable  me  to  discern  the  outlines  of  their  persons  as 
they  moved  from  me.  I  crept  and  crawled  upon  my  mission 
of  baseness,  with  all  pains-taking  circumspectness,  but  every 
moment  increased  the  space  between  me  and  the  men  I  pur 
sued,  until  1  had  nearly  lost  sight  of  them  altogether,  when,  on 
a  sudden,  they  turned  about  and  came  again  toward  me.  It  is 
probable  that  they  may  have  been  disturbed  by  the  too  eager 
progress  of  the  two  spies  on  the  other  side,  who  thus  drove 
them  back  upon  me.  Whatever  may  have  been  the  cause  of 
their  return,  I  had  barely  time  to  shrink  back  into  the  shade 
of  a  large  tree  as  they  approached  it ;  and  the  spot  being 
sufficiently  dense  and  dark  prompted  them  to  make  it  the 
scene  of  their  conference.  Foster  was  the  first  to  speak. 
Stopping  short  as  he  reached  a  cluster  of  saplings,  only  a  few 
paces  removed  from  the  place  where  I  stood  in  shadow,  he 
said  : — 

"  Here  now,  Eberly,  we  are  safe.  Everything  is  still  here, 
and  there  is  no  more  danger  of  interruption.  Unfold  yourself 
now.  What  secret  have  you  —  why  do  you  bring  me  forth  at 
an  hour  when  I  assure  you  a  quiet  snooze  would  be  more  agree 
able  to  me  than  the  finest  plot  which  you  could  fancy  for  rob 
bing  the  largest  portmanteau  in  Alabama  ?" 

"Do  not  jest  with  me,  Foster  —  I  can  not  jest ;  it  is  a  mat 
ter  of  life  and  death  to  me  which  makes  me  disturb  you,  else  1 
should  not  do  it.  My  life  hangs  upon  your  hands  —  more  than 
life;  I  can  not  sleep  myself;  forgive  rne  that  I  have  taken  you 
from  yours." 

Never  were  the  tones  of  a  man  more  piteously  imploring  than 


334  RICHARD   IIURDIS. 

those  of  the  speaker.  I  could  well  believe  him  wh^n  he  said  ba 
couJd  not  sleep. 

"  Your  life  .and  death  !"  said  Foster  ;  "  why,  what  mean  you, 
man  ?  Don't  stop  to  apologize  for  breaking  my  sleep,  when 
such  is  the  danger!  Speak  —  speak  out,  and  let  us  know  from 
what  quarter  the  storm  is  coming.  Who  is  the  enemy  you 
fear  ?'* 

"  You  !"  was  the  emphatic  reply.     "  You  are  my  enemy  !" 

"Me!" 

"  You,  your  fellows,  and  mine  —  myself!  These  are  my  ene 
mies,  Foster!  It  is  from  these  that  my  apprehensions  come  — 
it  is  these  that  I  fear  ;  my  life  is  in  their  hands !  More  than 
life  —  much,  much  more:" 

"  II a  !   what  is  all  this  ?" 

"  You  wonder.  Hear  me,  Foster.  I  will  tell  you  the  truth 
— nothing  but  the  truth  !  I  must  leave  the  fraternity  !  I  am 
not  fitted  for  its  membership.  1  can  not  do  the  work  it  requires 
at  my  hands.  I  dare  not  —  my  soul  sickens  at  its  duties,  and  I 
can  not  perform  them  !  I  lack  the  will— the  nerve  !" 

"  You  know  not  what  you  say,  Eberly,"  was  the  grave  reply 
of  Foster.  "  You  surely  do  not  forget  the  penalties  which  fol 
low  such  an  avowal  as  this?" 

"No  !  would  I  could  forget  them  !  Have  I  not  said  that  my 
life  and  death  are  in  your  hands  ]" 

"  Wherefore  have  you  awakened  me  then  ?"  was  the  cold  and 
inauspicious  reply.  "  I  could  tell  you  no  more  than  you  al 
ready  know." 

"  Yes,  you  can  save  me  !  I  come  to  you  for  pity  !  I  implore 
you  to  save  me,  which  you  can  !  A  word  from  you  will  do  it." 

"  Can  I — should  1  speak  that  word  ?  It  would  ruin  me  —  it 
would  ruin  us  all !" 

"  No  ;  it  would  not.  You  could  lose  nothing  by  letting  me  go 
free  —  nothing!  for  I  can  do  nothing  for  you.  I  can  not  com 
mit  crime!  I  can  neither  lie,  nor  rob,  nor  slay!  1  can  not 
obey  you ;  and,  sooner  or  later,  you  must  execute  your  judg 
ment  upon  me  for  neglect  or  perversion  of  my  pledges!" 

"  This  is  certainly  a  very  sudden  attack  of  virtue,  Mr.  Eber 
ly.  You  can  neither  lie,  nor  steal,  nor  slay.  You  have  become 
too  pure  for  these  duties ;  but  I  remember  the  time,  and  that 


DESPAIR   OF   THE   WEAK   BROTHER.  335 

too,  no  very  distant  time,  when  you  were  guilty  of  one  or  more 
of  these  dreadful  sins  from  which  your  soul  now  shrinks." 

"  Ay,  and  I  remember  it  too,  Foster.  I  did  not  need  that  you 
should  remind  me;  would  I  could  forget  it!  —  hence  came  my 
bondage.  You  discovered  my  unhappy  secret,  and  forged  my 
shackles  !  It  is  to  you  that  I  come  to  break  them  !" 

"  You  deny  it  not  that  you  were  guilty  of  the  robbery  of  old 
Barbers  then  ?" 

"  I  deny  it  not ;  and  yet  I  know  not,  Foster,  if  it  was  an  of 
fence  of  which  I  have  so  much  reason  to  be  ashamed.  Thank 
God!  I  took  not  his  money  for  myself;  the  wants  of  a  dying 
mother,  the  presence  of  a  cruel  necessity,  was  my  extenuation, 
if  not  excuse,  for  that  hapless  act  —  an  act  which  has  been  the 
heavy  millstone  around  my  neck  in  each  succeeding  moment  of 
my  life  !  Bitterly  have  I  repented — " 

"You  can  not  repent  —  you  shall  not  repent!"  was  the  sud 
den  speech  of  Foster.  "You  have  not  the  right  to  repent  — 
you  are  sworn  to  us  against  it,  and  can  not  repent  without  our 
permission." 

"  It  is  for  that  permissioil,  Foster,  that  I  come  to  implore  you 
now.  I  know  that  you  are  superior  to  the  cold  and  cruel  peo 
ple  whom  you  lead.  You  will,  you  must,  feel  for  my  situation. 
I  am  of  no  use  to  you,  I  can  not  rob  the  traveller,  nor  forge  a 
note,  nor  inveigle  a  negro  from  his  master  —  still  less  can  I  stab 
or  shoot  the  unoffending  man  who  opposes  my  unlawful  attempts 
upon  his  property.  I  am,  indeed,  only  an  incumbrance  upon 
you—" 

"  You  have  our  secrets." 

"  I  will  keep  them  —  I  swear  to  you,  Foster,  by  all  that  I* 
sacred  that  I  will  keep  them  !" 

"  You  can  not,  to  be  honest  —  to  go  back  to  the  paths  of  vir 
tue.  You  must  reveal  our  secrets ;  and  not  to  do  so  is  a  half 
virtue  which  looks  monstrously  like  hypocrisy.  It  is  a  com 
promise  with  vice,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  which  puts  the  blusb 
apon  your  late  returning  innocence.  No,  Eberly,  we  must 
Keep  our  secrets  ourselves  by  keeping  bound  those  who  know 
them.  Say  that  you  are  unable  to  serve  us  by  any  of  the  acts 
you  mention  —  you  are  not  less  able  to  serve  us  in  other  re 
spects,  equally  sinful  yet  not  so  obnoxious  to  public  censure  01 


336  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

punishment.  As  a  strong  man  it  might  be  my  lot  to  depend  on 
your  friendly  sympathy  to  save  me  from  a  halter." 

"  I  would  do  it,  Foster,  believe  me." 

"  We  must  make  you  do  it.  We  must  keep  our  reins  upor. 
you.  But  of  what  avail  would  be  a  permission  to  you  which 
could  not  annihilate  the  proofs  which  AVC  have  against  you? 
Whether  we  suffered  you  to  go  free,  and  held  you  to  be  no 
longer  one  of  us  or  not ;  the  offence  which  we  could  prove 
against  you,  would  still  make  you  liable  to  the  law.  Our  mere 
permission  to  depart  would  be  nothing — " 

"Yes  —  everything!  It  would  free  me  from  a  bondage  that 
now  crushes  me  to  the  earth,  and  defeats  all  my  meditated  ac 
tion  in  other  respects  !  For  the  wrong  I  have  done  to  Harbers, 
1  would  make  atonement — " 

"  Repay  him  the  money  from  the  robberies  of  others,"  re 
plied  Foster,  with  a  sneer. 

"  No,  Foster,"  said  the  young  man  patiently,  "  not  a  cent 
would  I  bear  from  your  treasury.  I  woidd  go  forth  as  unen 
cumbered  with  your  booty  as  1  hope  to  be  unencumbered  with 
the  sin  and  shame  of  the  connection." 

"  You  use  tender  words  in  speaking  of  your  comrades  and 
their  occupations,  Eberly." 

"  Without  meaning  to  offend,  Foster.  But  hear  me  out.  I 
should  not  merely  repay  Harbers,  but  1  would  confess  to  him 
the  crime  of  which  1  had  been  guilty." 

"Ha!  and  the  subsequent  sinful  connections  which  you  have 
formed  with  us,  and  our  precious  doings  together.  This  is  your 
precious  plan,  is  it  ?" 

"  Not  so  !  Though  resolved  to  declare  my  own  crimes  and 
errors,  I  am  not  bound  to  betray  the  confidence  of  others." 

"  This  is  your  resolution  now  ;  how  long  will  it  remain  so,  and 
what  will  be  our  security  when  the  chance  happens  —  which 
may  happen  —  when,  at  one  full  swoop,  you  may  take  us  all 
like  a  flock  of  partridges,  and  deliver  us  up  as  an  atonement 
for  your  own  youthful  sins,  to  the  hands,  so  called,  of  Justice? 
Eberly  —  Eberly,  you  are  speaking  like  a  child.  Do  you  think 
we  can  hearken  to  a  prayer,  such  as  that  you  make  1  Why 
every  white-livered  boy  of  our  band,  who  happened  to  fancy  a 
pair  of  blue  eyes,  and  a  dimity  petticoat,  would  be  seized  with 


DESPAIR   OF   THE   WEAK   BROTHER.  337 

a  fit  of  virtue  toward  us,  in  precise  degree  with  his  hot  lust 
after  the  wench  he  fancied — " 

"  Stay,  Foster ;  I  see  that  you  are  aware  of  my  intimacy 
with  Miss  Grafton." 

"  Surely.  You  have  never  taken  a  step  that  I  am  not  ac 
quainted  with.  And  now  let  me  ask,  did  you  feel  our  bondage 
so  oppressive  till  you  became  acquainted  with  this  girl  ?" 

"  I  did  not ;  my  knowledge  of  her  first  impressed  upon  me, 
with  a  more  just  sense  of  their  worth,  the  value  of  those  rewards 
which  follow  virtuous  practice." 

"  Pshaw,  man,  how  is  the  getting  of  this  girl  a  reward  of  vir 
tuc.  Can't  you  get  her  now,  while  you  are  a  trusted  member 
of  the  confederacy  ?  To  the  point,  man,  and  speak  out  the 
truth,  have  you  not  spoken  to  her,  and  has  she  not  consented 
to  be  yours  ?*' 

"  She  has." 

"  What  more  !  Marry  her  —  we  do  not  hinder  you.  We  ob 
ject  not  to  the  new  bonds  which  you  propose  to  put  on  yourself, 
though  grumbling  so  much  at  ours.  Be  sure,  we  shall  none  of 
us  forbid  the  banns.  Marry  her,  and  settle  down  in  quiet ;  our 
laws  will  give  you  no  trouble ;  your  duties  shall  be  accommo 
dated  to  the  new  change  in  your  condition,  and,  as  a  justice  of 
the  peace,  a  juror,  member  of  the  assembly,  or  of  Congress,  you 
can  be  as  eminently  useful  to  us  as,  nay,  more  useful  than,  a  stri 
ker  along  the  woods,  or  a  passer  of  counterfeit  notes.  These 
are  small  matters  which  any  bull-head  among  us  can  perform; 
you  have  talents  which  can  better  serve  us  in  higher  stations." 

The  youth  shook  his  head,  as  he  replied  sadly — 

"  If  I  did  not  love  Julia  Grafton,  or  if  I  loved  her  less,  it 
might  be  easy  to  be  satisfied  with  what  you  say.  But  I  neither 
can  nor  will  tetter  myself  or  her  in  a  bondage  such  as  you  men 
tion.  In  truth,  Foster,  I  can  serve  you  no  more — -I  can  serve 
the  confederacy  no  more.  I  make  this  declaration  to  you, 
though  I  die  for  it!  On  your  mercy  I  throw  myself — on  your 
kindness  often  professed,  and  tried  on  more  occasions  than  one ! 
Be  my  friend,  Foster  —  on  my  knees  I  pray  you  to  save  rue  in 
this  respect  —  save  me  —  let  me  go  free  —  I  will  leave  the  coun 
try —  I  will  go  into  a  distant  state,  where  you  can  be  in  no  dan 
ger  from  anything  that  I  can  do  or  say  !  You  can  have  no  rea 


338  RICHARD    HURDI8. 

son  to  refuse  me,  since  you  can  have  no  interest  in  keeping  me 
to  pledges  which  yield  you  no  interest,  and  only  bring  me  suf 
fering  !  Feeling  as  I  do  now,  and  situated  as  I  am,  I  can  do 
nothing  for  you !  Command  me  to  strike  here  or  there,  and  I 
can  not  obey  you !  From  this  day  forth  I  must  withhold  my 
service,  though  you  do  not  cancel  my  bonds !" 

Foster  seemed  touched  while  the  young  man  spoke,  but  this, 
perhaps,  was  only  a  part  of  his  cool  and  ready  hypocrisy,  lie 
interrupted  Fberly  when  he  had  said  the  last  sentence. 

"  Your  refusal  to  serve  us,  would,  you  know,  be  the  signal 
for  your  death." 

"  I  know  it ;  and  if  you  send  forth  the  decree,  I  must  meet 
my  doom,  and,  I  trust,  will  meet  it  like  a  man.  But  I  would 
escape  this  doom  ;  and  to  you,  and  you  only,  I  refer,  to  extri 
cate  me  from  it,  to  effect  my  object,  and  get  my  release  from 
the  secret  council.  There  is  but  one  man  whose  refusal  I  fear, 
and  with  him  you  would  have  some  difficulty,  I  doubt  not ;  but 
even  that  I  know  you  could  overcome.  Webber  hates  Grafton 
the  father  of  Julia,  and  hates  me,  because  1  love  her  honorably. 
It  was  he  who  brought  her  to  my  notice,  and  prompted  me  to 
the  scheme  by  which  I  became  an  intimate  in  the  family ;  a 
scheme  projected  for  a  dishonorable  and  foul  purpose,  which 
has  resulted  so  far,  in  one  of  which  I  have  no  reason  to  be 
ashamed.  I  would  spare  her  the  shame,  Foster,  of  having  con 
sented  to  share  the  name  and  affections  of  one,  who  may  be 
outlawed  the  very  moment  that  he  confers  upon  her  his  name." 

I  have  said  enough  to  exhibit  the  nature  of  this  conference, 
which  was  continued  twice  as  long.  In  its  progress,  the  youth 
exhibited  a  degree  of  remorse  and  sorrow  on  the  score  of  his 
own  offences,  and  an  honorable  and  delicate  consideration  in 
reference  to  Julia  Grafton,  which  turned  all  my  feelings  of  hos 
tility  into  feelings  of  pity.  Nor  was  this  sentiment  confined  t<> 
my  own  bosom.  I  conscientiously  believe,  that  Foster  sympa 
thized  with  his  grief,  and  inly  determined,  so  far  as  the  po\vor 
in  him  lay,  to  help  him  to  the  desired  remedy.  The  conference 
was  ended  by  the  latter  saying  to  him,  as  he  led  the  way  back 
to  his  place  of  rest :  — 

"  I  must  think  on  this  matter,  Eberly.  I  will  dc  what  I  can 
for  you,  but  I  can  promise  nothing:.  I  deny  not  that  1  have 


OKSPAIII   OF   THK    U'F.AK    BROTHER.  33£ 

influence,  but  my  influence  depends,  as  you  well  know,  upon 
such  an  exercise  of  it  as  will  best  accord  with  the  views  and 
wishes  of  those  whom  1  control.  1  am  sorry  for  you." 

The  youth  stood  a  moment  when  the  other  had  gone.  Then 
throwing  his  arms  up  to  Heaven,  as  he  turned  away,  he  ex 
claimed  :  — 

"  At  the  worst  I  can  but  perish.  But  she  !  she,  at  least,  shall 
suffer  nothing,  either  from  my  weakness  or  my  love.  She,  at 
least,  shall  never  he  wedded  to  my  accursed  secret.  Sooner 
than  that,  let  the  bullet  or  the  knife  do  its  work.  Thank  Got', 
amidst  all  my  infirmities,  I  have  no  dastard  fear  of  death;  — 
and  yet,  I  would  live.  Sweet  glimpses  of  joy  in  life,  such  as  1 
have  never  known  till  now,  make,  it  a  thing  of  value.  Oh  ! 
that  I  had  sooner  beheld  them  —  1  had  not  then  been  so  profli 
gate  of  honor  —  so  ready  to  yield  to  the  base  suggest ionn  «>1  thif 
wretched  clan." 


RICHARD    HURDtS. 


CHAPTER    XLVII. 

PLIGHT    OF   THE    WEAK    BROTHER. 

Til  note  you  in  rny  book  of  memory, 
To  scourge  you  for  this  reprehension  ; 
Look  to  it  well,  and  say  you  are  well  warned." — SHAKSPEKB. 

THE  unhappy  youth  had  scarcely  gone  from  sight  when  Mat 
Webber  and  my  colleague  Haller  emerged  from  a  bush  oppo 
site,  not  ten  paces  off',  in  which  they  had,  equally  with  myself, 
listened  to  the  whole  dialogue  as  I  have  already  narrated  it. 

"  So  !"  was  the  exclamation  of  Webber,  shaking  his  slow  fin' 
ger  after  the  departing  form  of  the  youth  — "  So  !  It  is  as  1 
expected  ;  and  your  doom  is  written,  Master  Eberly.  Foster 
can  save  you,  can  he  ?  We  will  see  to  that !  It  would  be  a 
difficult  matter  for  him  to  save  himself,  were  he  to  try  it.  It  is 
well  you  have  no  hopes  from  me  —  -wall !  /  hate  your  girl,  do 
I,  because  she  is  the  daughter  of  Grafloo.  nu<\  i  a'-. 3  you  because 
you  love  her  honorably  ]  Well  1  there  *L  trv.r.h  in  the  notion, 
however  your  dull  brains  happened  to  hit  upon  it.  I  do  hate 
both  of  you  for  that  very  reason.  Had  the  fool  used  his  pleas 
ure  with  the  girl,  byG — d,  Iliad  forgiven  him — he  had  had  my 
consent  to  go  where  he  pleased,  and  swear  oil'  from  us  at  any 
moment,  for  he  has  done  nothing  since  he  has  been  a  member 
—  he  was  never  of  much  use,  and  will  be  of  still  less  now.  But 
to  love  where  I  hate,  is  an  offence  I  can  not  so  readily  forgive 
No,  Haller,  the  bullet  and  the  knife  for  him.  He  shall  keep 
our  secrets,  and  his  own  too,  if  you  and  Williams  do  your  duty 
Ha!  — who's  that?" 

"  Williams  himself,"  was  my  answer,  as  I  came  out  of  my 
hiding-place,  and  joined  them. 

"Well! — you  have  heard  him  —  he  avows  hia  treason,  an3 


FLIGHT    OF   THE   WEAK   BROTHER.  341 

you  know  his  doom.  What  need  of  delay!  Go  after  him 
alone — you  will  not  have  a  better  place  for  the  blow  if  you 
waited  a  month.  Go  alone,  and  despatch  the  business." 

I  was  not  prepared  for  so  sudden  a  requisition,  and  the  san 
guinary  and  stern  command  at  once  confounded  me.  Yet  Web 
ber  had  only  repeated  the  words  of  Foster.  In  our  hands  lay 
the  award  and  the  execution  of  justice.  We  had  been  instruct 
ed  to  punish,  the  moment  we  resolved  that  the  penalty  had 
been  incurred ;  and  there  was  no  reasonable  pretext  for  doubt. 
What  to  do  or  say,  I  knew  not  —  to  think  of  committing  the 
cruel  deed  was,  of  course,  entirely  out  of  the  question.  Fortu 
nately,  the  answer  of  my  colleague,  Haller,  relieved  me. 

"  We  had  better  wait  and  hear  what  Foster  has  to  say.  He 
may  not  be  pleased  that  we  should  proceed  so  suddenly,  par 
ticularly  when  we  knew  that  he  had  promised  to  take  the  affaii 
into  consideration." 

"And  what  can  his  consideration  come  to?  What  can  he 
have  to  say?  He  can  not  alter  the  laws  —  he  can  not  acquit 
an  offender  whom  we  condemn  —  he  has  no  power  for  that." 

"  No  !  He  has  no  power  for  that ;  and,  so  far  as  my  voice 
goes,  we  shall  give  him  no  such  power  in  this  instance,"  was 
the  reply  of  Haller.  "Yet,  as  a  matter  of  civility  only,  it  will 
be  better  that  we  should  not  proceed  in  this  business  till  we 
have  heard  what  Foster  has  to  say.  He  might  look  upon  it, 
that  we  slighted  his  opinions,  and  his  wishes,  at  the  least ;  and 
there's  no  necessity  for  our  seeming  to  do  that.  Besides,  we 
can  not  lose  by  the  delay.  We  can  execute  to-morrow  just  as 
well  as  to-day  —  Eberly  can  not  escape  us." 

"  True  —  that's  true,"  was  the  reply  of  Webber  ;  "  though,  to 
speak  plainly,  I  don't  like  this  undertaking  to  interfere  on  the 
part  of  Clem  Foster.  He  can't  certainly  hope  to  persuade  us 
to  reverse  our  judgment,  and  let  this  boy  loose,  unmuzzled,  to 
confuse  and  convict  us  in  some  of  their  dirty  courts  of  jus 
tice  !— " 

•'  No  !  As  you  heard  him  say,  that's  a  matter  more  easy  to 
think  upon  than  to  do.  All  that  Eberly  could  say  in  a  court 
house  could  not  prove  against  one  of  us,  and  we  might  hang 
him  whenever  we  choose/' 

"  Yes,  but  we  don't  want  to  get  into  a  court  of  justice  at  all," 


312  RICHARD    HURDI8. 

said  Webler;  "and  there's  little  need  for  it,  when  we  have 
laws,  and  courts,  and  executioners,  of  our  own.  I  tell  you, 
Haller,  that  I  shall  regard  as  an  enemy  any  man  who  attempts 
to  get  this  chap  off  from  punishment,  lie  shall  die,  by  the 
Eternal!" 

"  So  he  may,  for  what  I  care,"  said  ITaller.  "  So,  indeed, 
he  shall,  under  our  own  certainty  of  what  he  deserves,  and  the 
power  which  has  been  entrusted  to  us.  Be  at  rest,  Mat  Web 
ber —  I  have  as  little  reason  to  let  Edward  Eberly  escape  as 
you  have.  I  hate  him — from  my  heart  I  hate  him  !  He  has 
scorned  and  insulted  me  before  our  men  ;  and  it  will  go  hard 
with  me  if  I  don't  avenge  the  insult  with  sevenfold  vengeance." 

"I'm  satisfied  that  you  will  keep  your  word,  Haller;  but 
Foster's  a  smooth-spoken  fellow,  and  he  may  have  some  kink 
in  liis  head  for  saving  this  chap.  He  used  to  be  very  fond  of 
keeping  company  with  him,  and  they  were  always  spouting 
verses  and  such  stuff  together.  I  know,  too,  for  all  Foster 
speaks  so  promptly  of  punishing  him,  that,  in  his  secret  heart, 
he  had  much  rather  let  Eberly  go  clear  from  punishment,  though 
he  risked  the  safety  of  the  whole  company  by  it." 

"  No  danger  of  his  doing  it,  whatever  may  be  his  wish,"  said 
Haller ;  "  you  have  my  oath  upon  it,  Mat.  Whatever  Foster 
may  say  or  do  in  the  business,  he  can't  say  or  do  anything  to 
alter  my  determination.  So  make  yourself  easy.  To-morrow, 
or  the  next  day,  at  farthest,  will  wind  up  the  traitor." 

"You  must  keep  watch  meanwhile  upon  him." 

"Yes!  —  go  about  it  now,  Williams;  look  to  Eberly  for  the 
space  of  an  hour,  and  I  will  come  and  relieve  you.  I  must  go 
with  Webber,  to  see  what  Foster  has  to  say  in  the  business  — 
and  hearken  to  his  interference,  even  if  we  do  not  mind  it.  But 
I  d.n't  think  he'll  interfere,  Mat.  The  spouting  poetry  might 
please  his  ears  well  enough,  but  I'm  convinced  he  could  slit  the 
pipe  of  the  spouter  the  moment  he  was  done." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  was  the  reply  of  Webber ;  "  but,  at  all 
events — " 

They  were  leaving  me  now,  and  Haller  interrupted  the 
speaker  to  counsel  me  before  he  went. 

"  I  showed  you,  Williams,  the  place  where  Eberly  sleeps  t 
do  yo-u  think  you  can  find  it  ?" 


FLIGHT    OF    THE    WEAK    BROTHER.  343 

Yes—  1  doubt  not." 

Then  go  to  it  at  once,  and  note  well  who  goc?  in  t:>  him, 
who  comes  out.  If  he  comes  out  slyly,  and  seems  disposed 
to  make  off,  do  not  stop  to  consider,  but  give  him  your  bullet. 
Be  sure  to  do  this  if  you  find  him  with  his  horse." 

These  were  the  instructions  of  Webber.  The  other  merely 
i\id  — 

"  Don't  fear  tha*  he  wil)  trj  ic  make  off  He  knows  such 
•efforts  can  not  give  him  security,  though  lie  should,  for  the  pres 
ent,  escape  us.  No  —  he  thinks  Foster's  influence  can  save  him, 
•and  he  will  remain  quiet  in  reliance  upon  it.v 

"  Be  not  now  too  sure,  Williams,"  were  the  parting  words  of 
Webber;  "watch  closely,  or  the  fellow  may  escape  you  yet. 
Remember  you  are  on  trial  now  :  your  promotion  depends  upon 
.your  zeal  and  success." 

Nothing  but  the  purposes  which  influenced  me  could  havj 
enabled  me.  to  tolerate,  with  patience,  nu-li  language  from  such 
a  wretch.  I  felt  my  heart  burn,  and  mv  blood  rise,  and  my  lip 
•quiver,  with  an  anger  \\hich  it  required  all  my  strength  of  res 
olution  to  repress,  every  moment  which  I  spent  in  my  connec 
tion  with  this  herd  of  rogues.  They  left  me,  and,  obeying  their 
instructions,  I  proceeded  to  the  place  among  the  bushes  —  a 
leafy  house  —  where  Kberlv  slept :  and,  taking  a  position  which 
enabled  me  to  observe  all  the  movements  of  its  inmates,  I  pre 
pared,  with  a  thoughtful  and  sleepless  mind,  to  pass  away  my 
hour  of  watch. 

Ilaller  afterward  related  to  me  what  took  place  in  their  in 
terview  with  Foster.  As  he  had  predicted,  the  latter  made  but 
•&  feeble  effort  to  excuse  the  unfortunate  Eberly. 

"  We  first  tried  to  find  out,"  said  Kaller,  "  if  Foster  was  dis 
posed  tvj  ,iave  any  concealment  from  us  ;  and,  pretending  that 
we  knew  nothing  of  the  interview  between  Eberly  and  himself, 
•we  spoke  of  other  matters  entirely.  But  he  volunteered,  and 
told  us  all  pretty  nearly  as  we  ourselves  heard,  except  he  may 
liave  suppressed  «some  of  those  parts  where  Eberly  spoke  scorn 
fully  of  Mat  Webber.  These  he  did  not  speak.  He  then 
asked  us  what  we  thought  of  the  application  ;  and  when  we 
told  him  that  now  there  was  no  doubt  that  Eberly  ought  to  die 
and  must  die,  lie  agreed  with  us  entirely.  Indeed,  even  if  he 


344  RICHARD    IIURDIS. 

had  not  agreed  with  us,  he  must  have  seen,  from  the  resolved 
manner  in  which  we  spoke,  that  it  would  not  have  heen  wisdom 
in  him  to  express  his  disagreement;  and  his  death  is  therefore 
resolved  upon.  We  arc  instructed  to  do  the  business  at  once  — 
better  now  than  never.  You  say  he  is  still  in  his  house?" 

This  conversation  took  place  where  I  had  been  watching  in 
front  of  the  bushy  dwelling  in  which  Kberly  slept;  but  my 
answer  to  the  con  biding  question  of  my  comrade  was  a  false 
hood  :  — 

"Yes,  he  is  still  there.  No  one  has  gone  in  or  out  since  I 
Lave  been  here." 

Nothing  but  the  lie  could  save  me,  and  I  had  no  scruples 
whatsoever  in  telling  it.  1  had  seen  persons  go  in  and  out. 
Scarcely  had  I  got  to  my  place  of  watch,  indeed,  whrn  I  saw 
Foster  enter  the  dingle.  J  crawled  closely  up  behind  it,  and 
heard  enough  to  convince  me  that  Foster  was  a  greater  hypo 
crite  than  1  had  thought  him,  yet  not  so  bad  a  man. 

"Eberly!"  he  said  quickly.  The  youth  started  from  the 
ground  where  I  could  see  he  was  kneeling.  He  started  and 
drew  a  pistol  in  the  same  moment.  The  click  of  the  cock 
warned  Foster  to  speak  again.  He  did  so,  and  announced  his 
name. 

"  I  come  to  warn  you  that  you  can  stay  here  no  longer.  I 
can  not  save  you,  Kberly.  I  wish  I  could.  But  that  is  impos 
sible.  My  lips  must  denounce  you,  to  keep  myself  unsuspected. 
There  is  a  conspiracy  against  me,  which  1  must  foil.  To  seek 
to  save  you,  I  would  only  sacrifice  myself,  and  do  you  no  ser 
vice.  I  can  do  nothing,  therefore,  but  counsel  you  to  fly.  The 
sooner  you  are  off  the  better.  Indeed,  I  risk  not  a  little  in 
coming  to  you  now.  Breton,  the  trusty  fellow,  advises  me  that 
Webber,  Haller,  and  Williams,  are  even  now  denouncing  me  in 
the  woods,  where  it  seems  they  overheard  all  our  conference. 
It  was  well  that  I  suspected  them,  and  scrupulously  addressed 
my  words  rather  to  their  cars  than  yours.  This  will  excuse  to 
you  my  seeming  harshness.  But  I  can  say  no  more.  In  a 
short  time  they  will  seek  me.  Take  that  time  to  be  off.  Fly 
where  you  can.  Put  the  Ohio  between  us  as  soon  as  possible, 
for  no  residence  in  the  Southwest  will  save  you." 

But  few  words  were  uttered  bv  the  visitor,  but  these  were 


FLIGHT   OF   THE   WEAK   BROTHER.  345 

eiiongh  to  prompt  the  immediate  exertions  of  the  youth.  Ilith 
crto  ho  had  appeared  to  me  in  an  attitude  wither  feeble  and 
unmanly ;  there  was  something  puny  and  effeminate  in  the 
manner  of  his  appeal  to  Foster  in  their  previous  interview; 
but  this  he  seemed  to  discard  in  the  moment  which  called  for 
resolute  execution.  He  drew  forth  and  reprimed  his  pistols, 
Fet  his  dirk-knife  in  readiness,  and  was  ready  in  two  minu'es 
\z  depart. 

"  Fortunately,  I  left  my  horse  on  the  very  edge  of  the  island," 
was  his  self-congratulating  remark.  "  Foster,  God  bless  you,  as 
I  do  !  Would  that  I  could  persuade  you  to  fly  with  me  !" 

The  other  shook  his  head. 

"Go!  go!  that  is  impossible.  You  fly  —  because  you  have 
hopes  to  fly  to.  1  have  none.  You  love,  Eberly  —  may  your 
love  be  more  fortunate  than  mine  has  been  —  than  I  am  dis 
posed  to  think  human  affections  generally  are.  It  is  because  I 
too  have  loved,  that  I  sympathize  with  you,  and  am  willing  to 
assist  you  in  your  flight.  1  know  not  that  I  am  serving  you, 
Eberly,  in  this,  yet  it  is  my  will  to  serve  you.  Take  the  will 
for  the  deed,  and  be  gone  »vkh  all  haste.  You  have  not  a  mo 
ment —  adieu  !" 

Foster  left  him,  and,  in  an  instant  after,  Eberly  emerged  from 
the  dingle.  It  was  in  my  power  to  have  obeyed  to  the  very 
letter  the  instructions  which  had  been  given  me,  and  to  have 
shot  him  down  without  difficulty.  My  extended  arm,  at  ono 
moment,  as  he  passed  from  the  copse,  could  have  touched  his 
shoulder.  But  my  weapon  was  unlifted  ;  and  I  felt  a  sudden 
satisfaction  as  I  found  it  in  my  power  to  second  the  intiutions 
of  Foster.  This  personage  had  placed  himself  also  in  a  more 
favorable  light  before  my  eyes  during  the  brief  interviev?-  which 
I  have  narrated.  It  gave  me  pleasure  to  see  that,  amid  brutal 
comrades,  and  wild,  lawless,  and  foul  pursuits,  he  yet  cherished 
in  his  bosom  some  lingering  sentiments  of  humanity.  There 
was  something  yet  in  his  heart  which  partook  of  the  holy  na 
ture  of  a  childhood  which,  we  may  suppose,  was  even  blessed 
with  hopes  and  kindred,  and  which,  however  perverted  now  to 
the  lessons  and  performances  of  hate,  once  knew  what  it  was  to 
do  homage  at  the  altar  of  confidi:.^  love.  Foster,  as  may  al 
ready  have  appeared  to  the  reader,  was  not  deficient  in  those 


346  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

requisitions  of  education  which  refine  the  taste  and  sentiment*, 
nowever  much  they  may  fail  to  impress  themselves  for  good 
on  a  corrupt  and  insensible  spirit. 

To  return.  I  denied  to  Haller,  as  already  stated,  that  any 
one  had  gone  in  or  out  from  the  place  where  Eberly  slept.  In 
the  unequivocal  lie  was  my  only  hope,  and  I  had  no  scruple  to 
utter  it.  My  comrade  then  spoke  as  follows  :  — 

"  We  have  agreed  among  ourselves  that  he  must  be  wound 
up.  Foster  makes  no  objections,  and  AVcbber  insists  that  it  be 
done  immediately.  To  you  it  is  intrusted  to  give  the  blow ; 
and  this  concludes  your  trial.  I  will  go  in  and  entice  him  out 
to  you.  Do  you  creep  forward  as  you  see  me  enter.  Stand 
behind  yon  tree  to  the  left,  and  I  will  bring  him  under  it  on 
the  other  side.  Have  your  pistol  cocked,  and  use  it.  But  take 
care  not  to  mistake  your  man.  If  you  notice  his  white  hat,  you 
can't  blunder.  Keep  quiet,  now,  while  I  go  in." 

He  left  me,  and  I  paused  where  I  was.  Musing  on  the  un 
anticipated  disappointment  of  the  ruffian,  a  sudden  whisper  at 
my  side  aroused  me  to  a  recollection  of  myself.  The  voice  was 
Webber's.  He  had  crawled  up  to  me  with  the  stealthy  pace 
of  the  wild-cat,  and  my  involuntary  start,  as  he  spoke,  attested 
my  wonder  at  the  ease  and  dexterity  of  his  approach. 

"  Why  do  you  stand  ?"  he  said  in  stern  accents ;  "  were  you 
not  told  what  to  do  —  where  to  go  ?  You  have  no  time  to  waste 
— go  forward !" 

Not  to  seem  remiss,  I  answered  promptly :  — 

"  I  wished  him  first  to  get  there.  Both  of  us  moving  at  the 
same  time,  might  alarm  him." 

"  More  likely  to  do  so  moving  one  at  a  time ;  but  move  now 
— you  are  slow.  You  will  win  no  favor  in  the  club  if  you  are 
not  more  prompt." 

I  could  have  driven  my  fist  into  his  teeth  as  he  spoke  thus 
authoritatively ;  but  prudence  stifled  my  anger.  As  it  was, 
however,  I  gave  a  sharp  reply,  which  had  in  it  a  latent  threat : 

"  You  will  find  me  prompt  enough  when  the  time  comes,  Mr. 
Webber." 

"  I  hope  so,  I  hope  so,"  he  said  coolly.  I  went  forward,  and 
reached  my  station  but  a  single  instant  before  HaJJer  re-emerged 
from  the  copse. 


FLIGHT    OF    THE    WEAK    BROTHER.  347 

"  He  is  gone  —  the  bird  is  off  !  "  he  cried  out  as  he  approached. 

"Ha  !  how  is  this  ?  "  exclaimed  Webber,  putting  his  hand  upon 
my  shoulder  with  a  firm  grip.  "  You  have  let  him  escape, 
Williams  !  You  have  slept  on  your  post,  man ;  or  you  have 
connived— 

He  paused  ;  but  his  language,  tone,  and  manner,  were  so  irresist 
ibly  provoking,  that  I  shook  his  grasp  from  my  shoulder,  and,  facing 
him  boldly,  replied  : — 

"  It's  false,  whoever  says  it  !  I  have  done  neither,  sir  —  neither 
connived  with  him,  nor  seen  him  fly.  liecull  your  words,  or,  by 
Heavens,  I  strike  you  in  the  mouth  !  " 

"And  if  you  did,  young  'un,  you'd  get  little  profit  from  it  — 
you'd  get  quite  as  good  as  you  sent.  But  this  is  no  time  to  vapor. 
It's  very  likely  you're  right,  and  I'm  wrong,  and  that  must  satisfy 
you  at  present.  How  is  it,  Ilaller  ?  —  wherefore  should  he 
fly  ?  Did  you  not  understand  that  he  would  wait  to  hear  Foster's 
decision  ?  " 

"  No,  I  did  not  understand,  but  I  inferred  it.  It  seemed  to  me, 
from  the  confidence  which  he  expressed  in  Foster's  ability  to  save 
him,  that  he  would  scarce  think  it  policy  to  fiy  ;  since  flight,  as  it 
indicated  distrust  of  us,  would  at  once  provoke  our  distrust  of  him, 
and  lead  to  a  denial  of  his  prayer.  I  would  have  sworn  that  we 
should  find  him  there." 

••  He  has  thought  better  of  it,  and  taken  to  his  heels.  But  he  has 
not  gone  far.  He  will  not  go  far.  He's  to  marry  Grafton's 
daughter;  I  know  that  they're  emyau'cd,  and  the  afl'air  is  to  take 
place  very  soon.  I  shouldn't  be  at  all  surprised,  from  his  agitation 
and  hasty  reference  to  Foster — -not  to  speak  of  his  flight  now — if  it 
is  fixed  for  to-morrow  or  the  next  night.'' 

There  was  much  in  this  speech  to  confound  and  afilict  me. 
"That  marriage  must  be  prevented,"  I  inly  declared  to  myself.  "  I 
must  risk  everything  to  prevent  its  consummation.  The  poor  girl 
must  not  be  sacrificed  to  such  a  connection.  However  much  I  may 
pity  him"  —  and  circumstances  really  began  to  impress  me  favor 
ably  toward  Clifton —  "  I  must  yet  save  her." 

While  the  two  confederates  debated  the  matter,  I  formed  my  own 
plans. 

"  Mr.  Webber,"  I  said,  "you  have  ascribed  the  flight  of  this 
man  to  my  neglect,  or,  which  is  worse,  my  connivance  ;  and 


348  niciiAiiD  iiiriiDis. 

your  apology,  if  it  may  be  called  such,  is  scarcely  satisfactory  to  me. 
But  I  leave  my  personal  atonement  over,  and  waive  my  own  claims  to 
the  interests  of  our  confederacy.  I  claim  to  pursue  this  man 
Eberly  —  to  pursue  and  put  him  to  death.  The  privilege  is 
mine,  for  several  reasons :  the  principal  are  enough.  I  will 
establish  my  claim  to  the  confidence  of  the  confederacy  ;  and,  as  the 
death  of  Eberly  seems  now  essential  to  our  secret,  secure  that. 
Instruct  me  where  to  seek  for  him.  I  will  pursue  him  to  Graf  ton's, 
and  put  a  stop  to  this  wedding  in  the  most  effectual  manner. 
Give  me  the  necessary  directions,  and  you  shall  see  that  I  am  neither 
a  sleeper  nor  a  traitor.  You  will  also  see  whether  I  am  bold 
enough  to  strike  either  in  our  common  cause  or  in  defence  of  my 
own  honor." 

"Shrewdly  crowed,  young  chicken,  and  to  the  purpose,"  was 
the  chuckling  response  of  Webber.  "Now,  that's  what  I  like 
—  that's  coming  out  like  a  man  ;  and  if  you  succeed  in  doing  what 
you  promise,  you  will  undoubtedly  have  an  equal  claim  on  me  and 
the  confederacy.  But  don't  misunderstand  me,  Williams.  I  never 
had  any  doubt  of  your  honor,  and,  if  I  had,  your  offer  now 
sufficiently  proves  me  to  have  been  wrong.  I  spoke  from 
the  haste  and  disappointment  of  the  moment ;  and  I  have  not  the 
slightest  question  that  Eberly  took  off  the  moment  after  leaving 
Foster.  He  took  the  alarm  at  something  or  other  —  and  men  who 
have  in  them  a  consciousness  of  wrong,  find  cause  of  alarm 
in  everything  ;  or  it  may  be  that  he  meditated  flight  from  the  first  — 
for,  now  I  think  of  it,  -I  observed,  when  he  first  came,  that 
he  fastened  his  horse  on  the  edge  of  the  swamp,  by  '  Pigeon-Roost 
branch,'  which  you  know,  Haller,  is  scarce  a  stone's  throw  from  the 
main  road  ;  though  that  would  be  a  stranger  plan  than  all,  since,  if 
he  meditated  flight,  he  need  not  have  come  ;  he  only  incurred  useless 
risk  by  doing  so." 

"  lie's  half  mad  —  that's  it,"  eaid  Haller.  "But  let  us  look  if  his 
horse  is  gone.  That  will  settle  our  doubts.  It  may  be  that  he  is 
still  on  the  island  somewhere." 

To  ascertain  this  fact  did  not  take  many  minutes,  and  the 
absence  of  the  horse  confirmed  the  flight  of  the  fugitive. 
I  now  demanded  of  Webber  if  my  proffer  was  accepted.  To  go 
upon  a  mission  of  this  kind,  which  would  enable  me  to  seek  out  and 
confer  with  Colonel  Graf  I  on,  was  now  the  dearest  desire  of  my 


FLIGHT   OF   THE    WEAK    BROTHER.  349 

heart.  To  save  his  daughter  was  a  sufficient  motive  for  this  desire  ; 
to  wreak  the  measure  of  my  great  revenge  upon  the  damnable  frater 
nity  with  which  I  had  herded  for  this  single  object,  was  no  less  great, 
if  not,  in  a  public  point  of  view,  much  greater.  I  had  a  stomach  for 
the  lives  of  all  —  ali.  The  memory  of  my  murdered  friend  took  all 
mercy  from  my  heart. 

To  my  question,  Webber  answered  : — 

li  We  must  see  what  Foster  says.  We  will  go  to  him  at  once. 
I'm  willing  that  you  should  go  about  this  business,  and  will  help  you 
to  all  information  ;  but  I'm  scarcely  in  a  hurry  about  it  now.  I've 
been  thinking  it  would  please  me  better  to  let  him  marry  the  girl 
before  we  kill  him.  Then,  if  it  so  happened  that  I  could  ever  lay 
my  foot  on  Graf  ton's  throat,  as  I  hope  to  do  before  long,  I  could 
howl  it  in  his  ears,  till  it  hurt  him  worse  than  my  bullet  or  my  knife, 
that  his  sweet  Julia,  his  darling,  of  whom  he  is  so  fond  and  proud 
and  boastful,  was  the  wife  of  a  common  robber —  a  thief  of  the  high 
way  —  a  rogue  to  all  the  world,  and  worse  tiian  a  rogue  to  his  own 
comrades!  That  would  be  a  triumph,  Ilaller;  and  Grafton,  if  I  know 
the  man  rightly,  would  go  out  of  the  world  with  a  howl  when  I 
cried  it  in  his  ear  !  " 

Sickening  at  the  fiendish  thought,  I  turned  with  revulsion  from 
the  iiend,  and  felt  humbled  and  sad  as  I  was  constrained  to  follow 
such  a  rufllan  in  silence,  and  without  any  show  of  that  natural  resent 
ment  which  I  felt.  But  i  conquered  my  impatience  as  I  retlected 
that,  by  delay,  I  hoped  to  obtain  at  once  a  complete  and  certain  satis 
faction.  An  image  of  my  sanguinary  revenge  rose  before  my  eyes  as 
I  then  went  forward;  and,  in  fancy,  I  beheld  streaming  wounds,  and 
I  felt  my  feet  plashing  in  rivulets  of  stagnating  blood!  —  and  a 
strange  but  shuddering  pleasure  went  through  my  bosom  at  the  fancy. 


350  RICHARD    1IURDIS. 


CHAPTER    XLVIII. 

THE  AFFAIR   GROWS  MORE   INTRICATE. 

"  The  land  wants  such 

As  dare  with  vigor  execute  the  laws  ; 

Her  festered  members  must  be  hvnced  and  tented : 

He's  a  bad  surgeon  that  for  pity  spares 

The  part  corrupted,  till  the  gangrene  spreads, 

And  all  the  body  perish  :  He  that's  merciful 

Unto  the  bad  is  cruel  to  the  good." — RANDOLPH. 

FOSTER  received  the  tidings  of  Ebcrly's  flight  with  well-affected 
astonishment.  Putting  on  the  sternest  expression  of  countenance, 
he  looked  on  me  with  suspicion. 

"And  you  were  set  to  watch  him,  Williams.  How  is  this: 
I  fear  you  have  been  neglectful  —  you  have  slept  upon  youi 
watch  —  I  can  not  think  that  you  have  had  any  intelligence 
with  Eberly." 

In  answering  the  speaker,  I  strove  to  throw  into  my  eyes  a 
counselling  expression,  which  it  was  my  hope  to  make  him 
comprehend.  My  answer,  shaped  to  this  object,  had  the  desired 
effect. 

"I  have  not  slept,  and  you  do  me  only  justice,  when  you 
think  that  I  have  had  no  intelligence  with  the  fugitive.  But  I 
have  volunteered  to  pursue  him,  and  will  execute  your  judg. 
mc'iits  upon  him,  if  I  can;  even  though  he  should  put  tJte  Okie- 
bdirccii  us." 

The  reader  will  remember,  that  the  phrase  here  italicised 
was  employed  by  roster  himself,  in  giving  his  parting  counsels 
to  Eberly.  Foster  readily  remembered  it,  and  I  could  detect 
—  so  I  fancied  —  in  the  tone  of  voice  with  which  he  adressed 
me  in  reply,  a  conviction  that  I  was  privy  to  his  own  partial 
and  perhaps,  pardonable  treachery  to  his  comrades.  In 


THE    AFFAIR    UliOWS    MORE    INTRICATE,  351 

other  respect  lie  seemed  unmoved,  and  his  reply  was  instan 
taneous. 

"And   we   accept  your    offer,    Williams  —  you    shall    have  the 

opportunity  you  seek  to  prove  your  fidelity,  and  secure  the  confi 
dence  of  the  club.  We  are  agreed,  Webber,  are  we  not,  that 
Williams  shall  take  the  track  of  Eberly  ? " 

"Ay  —  tomorrow,  though  I  care  not  that  he  should  strike 
'ill  the  day  following,  if  it  be  that  I  conjecture  rightly  on  one 
matter." 

"What  matter?  What  is  it  that  your  conjecture?  "  demanded 
Foster,  suspiciously. 

"Why,  that  Eberly  is  about  to  marry  Julia  Grafton.  It  would 
not  surprise  me  much  if  the  affair  takes  place;  in  a  day  or  two. 
"(  think  it  must  be  so,  from  his  present  anxiety." 

"lie  would  be  a  fool,  indeed,  to  think  of  such  a  thing,  with 
out  our  permission,"  replied  Foster;  "  but  even  if  such  be  the  case, 
therefore  would  y<  u  defer  execution  upon  him  till  the  day  fol 
lowing,  supposing  that  Williams  should  get  a  chance  to  strike  as 
$ve  blow." 

"  I  would  have  the  marriage  completed,"  was  the  answer.  "  I 
vvould  have  Grafton's  pride  humbled  by  his  daughter's  union  with 
ine  whom  we  should  be  able,  not  only  to  destroy,  but  dishonor. 
By  all  that  is  devilish  in  my  heart,  Foster,  I  could  risk  my  life 
freely,  to  tell  Grafton  all  his  story,  with  my  own  lips  the  day 
after  his  daughter's  nuptials.'' 

"  Well,  you  hate  fervently  enough,"  said  Foster;  "and,  perhaps, 
A'here  one's  hand's  in,  he  may  as  well  thrust  away  with  his  whole 
soul.  But  this  helps  not  our  purpose.  It  is  agreed,  you  say,  that 
Williams  goes  upon  this  business'.  " 

"Yes." 

"Then  his  course  must  take  him  at  once  to  Grafton's  neighbor 
hood." 

"Yes  —  that  is  our  course  ioo.  We  meet  to-morrow,  you  recol 
lect,  with  Dillon  and  others,  at  the  '  Blind.'  Our  beginners  must 
be  examined  there." 

"But  Williams  must  start  before  us." 

"No  —  it  needs  not,"  said  Webber.  "We  need  be  in  no 
hurry  now,  since  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  we  shall  be  able 
to  find  Eberly  at  any  moment  within  the  three  next  days 


352  RICHARD     1IURDIS. 

Williams  knows  that  lie  must  find  him  in  that  time,  and  if  he 
docs  not,  send  Dillon  and  Hnller  on  his  track,  and  they  find  him, 
I'll  bet  my  life,  though  they  hid  him  in  the  closet  scuttle-hole 
of  Natchy  swamp.  Let  us  all  go  together  to  the  meeting  of  the 
'Blind, 'and  not  alarm  the  traitor  by  pressing  the  pursuit  upon  him 
in  the  very  moment  of  his  flight.  Let  him  have  a  little  time  —  let 
him  marry  away,  and  be  happy,  if  he  can,  for  a  night  or  two. 
It  will  not  diminish  his  punishment  that  he  has  a  taste  only 
of  wedlock.  Julia  Grafton  is  a  sxvcct  girl  enough  —  I  could 
have  taken  her  nn'self,  and,  perhaps,  been  an  honest  overseer  of 
her  father's  plantation  all  my  life — •  bowing  respectfully  to  his 
high  mightiness,  and  kissing  the  rod  of  his  rebuke — had  he  only 
looked  a  willingness  to  let  me  have  her.  But,  as  it  is — let  the 
game  go!  It  matters  not  much  who  has  what  we  can't  have;  and 
yet  I  hate  Grafton  so  cursedly,  that  it  gives  me  pleasure  to  think 
that  she  is  to  be  the  wife  of  one  so  completely  in  our  r>ower  as 
Edward  Eberly  —  or  Clifton,  as  we  should  call  him  in  Grafton 
Lodge.  Let  him  swing  freely  on  his  gate  awhile;  and  Williams  may 
take  his  time.  He  cannot  escape  all  of  us,  though  he  may  escape 
him." 

"You  will  instruct  Williams,  then,  when  he  shall  go,  and  where," 
said  Foster. 

"Yes — that  shall  be  my  look-out.  In  the  meantime,  let  us  go  to 
sleep.  We  have  to  start  early,  and  the  small  hours  are  beginning — I 
can  tell  from  the  increasing  darkness  and  the  cold.  Let  us  wrap  up, 
and  sleep  fust,  for  we  must  be  stirring  early.  Williams,  I'll  wake 
you  in  the  morning." 

"  The  sooner  the  better,"  was  my  reply;  "  for,  between  us,  I  don't 
like  this  putting  off.  If  I  am  to  go  after  Eberly,  I'd  rather  start 
at  daylight,  and  strike  as  soon  as  I  get  a  chance.  I  hate,  when  I 
have  such  a  business  on  li.-iwl,  to  risk  its  justice  by  my  own  delay; 
particularly  when  delay  can  be  avoided.  Besides,  I'm  thinking 
that  if  Eberly  marries  this  girl,  he  will  be  cunning  enough  to  leave 
the  country.  Ten  to  one,  he's  made  all  his  arrangements  for 
an  early  start,  and  will  be  off  on  fast  horses  soon  after  the 
event." 

"That's  true,"  said  the  ruffian;  "I  did  not  think  of  tliat  — 
you  shall  start  as  soon  as  possible  after  we  have  met  our  men 
at  the  '  Blind '  to-morrow.  AYe  must  meet  them  there  first,  for 


THE   AFFAIR   GROWS   MORE   INTRICATE  353 

I  have  business  of  importance  with  one  of  them  that  must  be  seen  to ; 
and  you'll  have  to  wait  till  I  can  show  you  the  way  to  Grafton's,  and 
some  few  of  our  hiding-places,  thereabouts. 

In  my  eagerness,  I  had  almost  told  him  that  I  knew  the 
place  well  enough,  and  could  find  it  without  him.  My  anxiety 
to  be  in  season  to  prevent,  the  nuptials,  had  nearly  blinded  me 
to  the  great  risk  of  detection,  to  which  S".ch  ;iu  avowal  must 
have  subjected  me.  But  I  met  the  inquiring  glance  of  Foster's 
eye  at  this  moment,  and  that  brought  me  to  my  senses.  It  taught 
me  that  I  was  playing  a  part  of  triple  treachery,  and  warned 
me  to  be  duly  cautious  of  what  I  uttered.  Without  further 
question  or  reply,  we  broke  up  for  the  night ;  and  it  seemed 
to  me  that  I  had  scarcely  got  snugly  into  my  place  of  rest,  and 
closed  my  eyes  for  an  instant,  before  I  was  awakened  by  Webber, 
with  a  summons  to  set  forward.  However  w.r.'ling  in  proper 
rest,  for  my  partial  slumbers  of  the  night  h;i-i  given  me  no 
refreshment,  I  had  too  greatly  at  heart,  the  pe:;"e  of  Grafton's 
family,  and  the  safety  of  the  poor  girl  Julia,  rot  to  leap  with 
alacrity  at  the  summons.  Ten  minutes  sufiiced  :o  set  us  all  in 
motion,  and  as  the  bright  bla/.e  of  the  sun  open  d  upon  us,  we 
were  speeding  on  at  full  gallop,  some  seven  of  us,  nt  least,  to  our 
place  of  meeting  at  the  "Blind."  There  had  been,  at  different 
periods  of  the  night,  full  thirty  men  in  our  bivouac  in  the 
Sipsy,  but  they  came  and  went  at  all  hours,  and  none  remained 
but  those  who  had  something  of  the  general  management  of  the 
rest.  Five  of  these  were  my  companions  now.  The  other  two 
were  Ilaller  and  myself.  Haller,  it  seems,  was  not  so  much  a 
counsellor  as  a  trusted  underling  or  orderly  —  a  fellow  sufficiently 
cunning  to  seem  wise,  and  so  much  of  the  rogue  as  to  deserve, 
even  if  lacking  wisdom,  a  conspicuous  place  among  those 
whose  sole  aim  was  dishonesty.  But  our  business  is  not  with 
him. 

A  smart  ride  of  a  few  hours  brought  us  to  our  resting-place, 
a  nest  of  hills  huddled  together  confusedly,  and  forming,  with 
the  valley  already  described,  called  the  "Day  Blind,"  a  hundred 
natural  hiding-places  of  like  form  and  character.  Here  I  was 
within  a  few  miles  of  Col.  Grafton's  residence.  I  had  passed 
the  dwelling  of  Matthew  Webber,  already  so  well  known 
to  the  reader,  and  who  should  "be  my  companion,  side 
of  the  mountain,  threatened  in  their  flow  to  break  down  all  barriers, 


354  RICH  A  111)    I1URDI8. 

by  side  with  me  as  I  passed  it,  but  Webber  himself.  I  watched 
him  closely  when  we  came  in  sight  of  it,  and  though  I  could 
see  that  lie  regarded  it  with  wistful  attention,  yet  he  was  as 
silent  as  the  grave  even  on  the  subject  of  his  own  late  pro 
prietorship  ;  and  my  position  was  too  nice  and  ticklish  to  make 
any  reference  to  it,  advisable  on  my  part. 

When  we  got  to  the  place  of  rest,  which  was  about  noon,  we 
found  several  of  the  brotherhood  already  assembled,  most  of 
whom  were  instantly  taken  aside  by  Foster,  Webber,  and  one 
or  two  others,  who  ruled  with  them,  and  underwent  an  exami 
nation  as  to  what  they  had  done  or  were  in  preparation  to  do. 
For  my  part  I  had  nothing  to  do  but  saunter  about  like  many 
others  —  lie  down  on  the  sunny  knolls,  and  tumble  among  the 
yellow  leaves,  lacking  employment.  This  was  no  pleasurable 
exercise  for  one  who  had  in  his  heart  such  an  unappeasable 
anxiety  as  was  then  pervading  mine,  and  which  I  could  scarce 
keep  from  exhibition.  Meantime,  I  could  see  men  coming  and 
going  on  every  side ;  the  persons  seeming  quite  as  multiformed 
and  particolored  as  the  business  was  diverse  in  character  in 
which  they  were  engaged.  While  1  gazed  upon  them  without 
particular  interest,  my  eyes  were  drawn  to  a  group  of  three 
persons  who  now  approached  the  valley  from  a  pass  through 
the  two  hills  that  rose  before  me.  At  the  distance  where  I  lay, 
I  could  not  distinguish  features,  but  there  was  an  air  and  man 
ner  about  them,  which,  in  two  of  the  party,  compelled  my  clo 
sest  attention.  The  horses  which  they  rode  seemed  also  to  be 
familiar  j  and  with  more  earnestness  of  feeling  than  I  can  now 
describe,  or  could  then  account  for,  I  continued  to  gaze  upon 
them,  as,  without  approaching  much  nigher  to  where  I  lay,  they 
continued  their  progress  forward  to  where  Foster  and  Webber 
were  in  the  habit  of  receiving  their  followers.  But,  at  length, 
overcome  by  strange  surmises,  I  sprang  to  my  feet,  and  shading 
my  eyes  with  my  hands,  endeavored  to  made  out  the  parties. 
The  next  moment  they  disappeared  behind  the  knoll,  and,  with 
my  anxiety  still  unsubdued,  I  threw  myself  again  upon  the 
ground,  and  strove  with  my  impatience  as  well  as  I  could. 
Perhaps  a  full  hour  elapsed  when  I  saw  the  three  re-emerge 
from  behind  the  knoll,  and  come  out  into  the  valley.  They 
were  followed  by  Foster,  who  conducted  them  a  little  afii^  n% 


**  THE   AFFAIR   GROWS   MORE    INTRICATE.  355 

the  four  seatel  themselves  together  for  a  while,  on  the  side  of 
the  hills  ;  after  a  hrief  space,  Foster  left  them  and  came  toward 
me.  He  threw  himself  do\vn  beside  me,  with  an  air  of  weariness. 

"Well,  Williams,  yon  seem  to  take  the  world  easily.  Here 
yon  lie,  stretched  at  length  upon  the  ground,  as  if  it  had  no 
insects,  and  looking  np  to  the  skies  as  if  they  were  never  shad 
owed  by  a  cloud.  For  my  part  I  see  nothing  but  insects  and 
worms  along  the  earth,  and  nothing  but  clonds  in  heaven. 
This  comes  from  the  nature  of  our  pursuits,  and  to  speak  a 
truth,  I  sometimes  see  a  beauty  in  virtue  which  I  have  never 
been  able,  to  see  in  man.  I  almost  think,  if  circumstances 
w.uld  let  me,  that  I  would  steal  away,  like  poor  Kbcrly,  from 
cur  comrades,  ami  try  to  do  a  safer  and  an  humbler  sort  of  busi 
ness,  among  better  reptiles  than  we.  now  work  with." 

This  speech,  it' meant  to  deceive,  did  not  deceive  me. 

"  You  would  soon  long  to  return,  Foster,  to  your  present  com 
panions  and  occupations,  or  I  greatly  >:i intake  your  temper," 
was  rny  reply.  "  Your  ambition  is  your  prevailing  principle  — 
to  sway,  your  leading  object  —  to  be  great,  to  have  distinction, 
is  the  predominating  passion  of  your  heart." 

My  reply  was  intended  merely  to  Hatter  him,  and  it  had  its 
effect.  He  paused  for  an  instant,  then  said,  with  a  smile: — 

"And  yon  would  add,  Williams,  that,  like  Milton's  devil,  I 
am  not  at  all  scrupulous  as  to  the  sort  of  greatness  which  I  aim 
at,  or  the  quality  of  the  instruments  with  which  I  wrought." 

"  And,  if  I  did,  Foster,  I  do  not  see  that  the  imputation  would 
do  you  any  discredit.  Men  are  pretty  much  alike  wherever  we 
tind  them,  and  there  are  virtuous  monsters  no  less  than  vicicus 
ones.  Circumstances,  after  all,  make  the  chief  cV.tfe.renees  in 
the  characters  of  mankind  ;  and  many  a  saint  m  y'"?.'te,  born  in 
my  condition,  would  have  cut  many  more  throats  than  it's  my 
hope  ever  to  do.  To  rule  man  is  to  rule  man —  any  ?nf[uiiy  as 
to  the  moral  differences  between  these  you  rule  and  those  you 
rule  by,  is  a  waste  of  thought,  since  the  times,  and  the  seasons, 
the  winds  and  the  weather,  or  a  thousand  differences  which 
seem  equally  unreal  and  shadowy,  are  the  true  causes  of  the 
vices  of  one  class  and  the  virtues  of  another.  A  planter  pays 
his  debts,  and  is  liberal  if  he  makes  a  good  crop  —  he  fails  in 
hoth  respects  if  his  crop  fails ;  and  tbe  creditor  denounces  hup 


356  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

as  a  rogue,  a 'id  sells  his  property  under  the  hammer  of  a  sher 
iff,  while  the  church  frowns  upon  him  from  the  moment  he 
ceases  to  drop  his  Mexican  in  the  charity  hat.  Saints  ami 
devils  are  pretty  much  the  same  people,  if  the  weather  prevails 
with  equal  force  in  their  favor;  but  when  the  wind  changes 
and  blights  the  crop  of  the  one,  and  ripens  that  of  the  other,  tea 
to  one,  the  fiist  grows  to  be  a  general  benefactor  and  is  blessed 
by  all,  while  the  other  is  driven  from  society  as  a  miserable 
skunk,  whom  it  is  mere  charity  to  kick  out  of  existence.  You 
should  not  bother  your  head  in  wishing  for  better  followers  or 
a  dominion  less  questionable.  If  you  have  fifteen  hundred 
men  willing  to  fight  and  die  for  you,  and  not  minding  the  laws 
on  the  subject,  you  arc  a  better  and  a  greater  man  than  the 
governor  of  Mississippi,  who,  do  his  best,  can  not  command 
fifteen  hundred  votes.  To  my  mind,  it  is  clear  that  yours  is  the 
greater  distinction." 

"That  is  true;  and  yet,  Williams,  what  is  distinction,  indeed, 
but  a  sort  of  solitude  —  a  dreary  eminence,  which,  though  wo 
may  behold  many  laboring  at  all  seasons  to  scramble  up  its 
side,  how  few  do  we  see  able  to  occupy  it,  how  much  more  few 
the  number  to  keop  it.  My  eminence,  imposing  as  it  may  seem 
to  you,  is  at  best  very  insecure.  I  have  rivals  —  some  who  seek 
to  restrain  me  and  to  crush  my  power,  by  lopping  off  my  best 
friends  at  every  opportunity,  and  on  the  slightest  pretences. 
These  I  am  bound  to  save,  yet  I  do  so  at  great  peril  to  myself. 
I  risk  my  own  rule,  nor  my  rule  only  —  I  risk  my  life  daily,  in 
>hls  connection,  by  seeking  to  save,  as  I  am  resolute  always  to 
do,  the  frigid,  however  wanting  in  other  respects,  who  has 
proved  true  to  my  desires  and  cause." 

J  Baw  which  way  these  remarks  tended;  and  resolved,  at 
once,  to  pn<  a  satisfactory  conclusion  to  the  apprehensions 
which  I  saw  prevailed  in  the  mind  of  my  companion.  He  was 
obliquely  seeking  to  justify  himself  for  his  course  in  regard  to 
Kberly,  which  he  saw  that  I  knew  —  and,  probably,  he  wafl 
aiming  to  discover  in  how  far  I  might  be  relied  on  in  sustain 
ing  him  in  any  partisan  conflict  with  the  rivals  of  whom  he 
spoke.  My  answer  was  not  without  its  art ;  and  it  fully  an- 
*  vtMvd  its  intended  purpose.  . 

"  You  do  uo  more  than  you  should,"  was  my  reply.     "  You 


THE    AFAIR    GIIO\VS    MOIIK    IXT1IICATK.  357 

are  bound  to  succor  your  friends  over,  against  the  laws  of  youi 
comrades,  since  they  risk  the  peril  of  these  laws  in  serving  you. 
I  understand  your  difficulty.  Indeed,  it  did  net  need  that  yon 
should  declare  it  to  me,  in  order  to  make  me  know  it.  J  had 
not  been  an  hour  in  your  camp  on  the  Sipsy  before  I  saw  the 
secret  strife  wl.hh  was  going  on  ;  and,  I  may  say,  Foster,  once 
for  all,  you  may  count  upon  me  to  sustain  yon  ji^ainst  any 
rival  that  may  be  raised  up  in  opposition  to  your  jti>t  rule,  from 
among  the  confederates.  Count  en  me,  I  ^iy,  to  support  you 
against  Webber  and  his  clan,  for  it  strikes  me  that  he  isllie  fel 
low  you  have  most  to  fear." 

"You  are  right!"  he  said,  grasping  my  hand  nervously  — 
'you  are  quite  right,  and  I  admire  your  keenness  of  observa 
tion,  only  less  than  the  warmth  of  your  personal  regard  fur  me. 
t-Vebber  is,  indeed,  the  person  who  is  now  plotting  secretly 
igainst  me.  There  will  be  a  trial  of  strength  between  us  in 
'he  council  of  twelve  to-morrow  —  and  I  shall  defeat  him  there, 
though  by  so  small  a  vote  that  it  will  tend  to  stimulate  him  to 
still  greater  exertions,  and  to  make  him  more  inveterate  in  his 
hostility,  which  he  has  still  grace  enough  to  seek  to  hide." 

lie  would  probably  have  gone  on  much  further  in  the  (level 
opment  of  the  miserable  strife  that  followed  hard  upon  his  state, 
but  that  a  movement  of  my  own  interrupted  him.  31  y  eyes  had 
been  for  some  time  turned  watchfully  upon  the  group  of  three 
persons  to  which  I  have  already  called  the  reader's  attention. 
They  had  left  the  little  knoll  on  which  they  seated  themselves 
when  Foster  first  emerged  with  them  from  the  place,  of  confe 
rence,  and  had  advanced  somewhat  further  into  the  valley,  and 
consequently  rather  neaj-er  to  my  place  of  repose,  which  was 
half  way  down  one  of  the  hills  out  of  which  it  was  scooped. 
This  approach  enabled  me  to  observe  tnem  better  ;  and.  aa 
they  movod  about  among  another  party,  who  were  pitching 
quoits,  my  eyes  gradually  distinguished  their  persons  first,  and 
at  length  their  features.  This  discovery  led  to  my  interruption 
"f  Poster's  developments.  What  was  my  consternation  and 
wonder  to  recognise  John  Hurdis  in  one,  and  Ben  Pickett  in 
another  of  this  group.  With  difficulty  I  kept  myself  from 
leaping  upright  —  my  finger  was  involuntarily  extended  toward 
them 


358  RICHARD    HURDIS, 


"What  see  you]"  demanded  Foster,  loo^ti'g  in  the  same  di 
rection.  His  demand  was  a  sufficient  warning  foi  ine  to  b* 
cautious,  and  yet,  for  the  life  of  me,  I  could  not  forbear  the 
question  in  reply. 

"  Who  are  those  ?" 

"What,  the  pitchers?" 

"  Yes  !  yes  !  and  their  companions  —  the  lookers-on." 

"One  of  the  pitchers  is  a  fellow  named  Ilatfield  —  a  close 
friend  of  Webber,  and  one  of  our  most  adroit  spies;  he  is  the. 
fellow  in  green  ;  the  other  two  are  common  strikers,  who  will 
set  out  on  an  expedition  to-night.  They  are  exceedingly  ex 
pert  horse-stealers,  and  the  people  near  Columbus  will  hear  of 
them-  before  they  are  two  days  older  —  the  tallest  one  is  named 
Jones,  the  other  Baker." 

"And  how  do  they  incline  —  toward  you  or  Webber?"  was 
an  indifferent  question,  almost  too  indifferently  put  to  answer 
the  purpose  of  a  disguise  to  my  real  curiosity,  for  which  it  was 
intended.  I  heard  his  answer  impatiently,  and  then,  with  lips 
that  trembled,  I  demanded  — 

"And  who  are  the  three  lookers-on?  I  have  not  seen  them 
before  !  They  were  not  with  us  on  the  Sipsy  last  night  ?" 

"  No  ;  they  have  just  come  from  down  the  river.  The  smal 
ler  fellow  is  one  of  our  keenest  emissaries,  and,  perhaps,  one  of 
our  bravest  men.  lie  has  just  brought  up  the  two  men  who  are 
with  him  —  " 

"  What  !  as  prisoners  ]"  I  exclaimed,  in  my  impatience. 

"  Prisoners,  indeed  !  No.  What  should  we  do  with  prison 
ers  ?  They  belong  to  us.  They  are  our  men."  - 

"  Why,  then,  do  you  say  he  brought  them  up  ?" 

"This  is  the  affair.  I  have  just  fini.-hed  their  examination. 
It  appears  that  the  large,  fat  fellow,  is  rather  a  rich  young 
planter  somewhere  in  Aiarengo.  lie  had  n  brother  with  whom 
he  had  a  quarrel.  This  brother  set  off  Y/iiii  a  companion  some 
weeks  ago  for  the  'nation,'  where  they  propped  to  enter  lands 
The  elder  brother  avails  himself  of  this  oppon  unity  to  revenge 
himself  for  some  indignities  put  upon  him  by  the  younger,  and 
despatches  after  him  the  fellow  in  homespun,  whom  you  see  be 
side  him,  his  hands  in  his  breeches  pockets.  Webber,  it  appears, 
about  the  same  time,  laid  a  trap  for  the  two  travtll«rs,  <>uc  "f 


THE   AFFAIR   GROWS   MORE   INTRICATE.  359 

whom  fell  into  it  very  nicely  —  the  other  broke  off  and  got 
away.  They  pursued  him,  but  they  must  have  lost  him,  but 
for  the  timely  aid  of  the  chap  in  homespun,  who,  lying  in  wait, 
shot  down  the  fugitive,  and  then  made  off  to  his  employer.  Ac 
cording  to  our  general  plan,  an  emissary  was  sent  after  the  mur 
derer;  and,  in  securing  him,  the  secret  of  the  brother  was  dis 
covered.  In  this  way,  both  have  been  secured,  and  are  now 
numbered  among  our  followers." 

I  have  abridged  Foster's  narrative,  in  order  to  ivoid  telling 
a  story  twice,  llere  was  a  dreadful  discovery.  My  stupid 
amazement  can  not  be  described.  I  was  literally  overcome. 
Foster  saw  my  astonishment,  and  inquired  into  its  cause.  My 
reply  was,  perhaps,  a  sufficient  reason  for  my  astonishment, 
though  it  effectually  concealed  the  true  one. 

"  Great  God  !  can  this  be  possible  ?     His  own  brother  ?" 

"  Even  so.  Neither  youju>r  J^mihljhave  done  such  a  thing, 
bad  as  >yp,  may~])p  T7^Il-Uy.-4^4JL^r/ltfrr(]  j^^t^  The  fellow 
seems  but  a  poor  creature  after  all,  and  could  hardly  stand  du 
ring  our  examination.  Of  such  creatures,  however,  we  make 
the  most  useful,  if  not  the  most  daring  members.  We  will  let 
him  go  back  to  Marengo  after  to-morrow,  and  be  a  pillar  of  the 
church,  which,  1  think  it  not  improbable,  he  will  instantly  join, 
if,  indeed,  he  be  not  already  a  member.  The  other  fellow,  who 
is  called  Pickett,  takes  to  us  with  a  relish,  and  Webber  has  found 
him  a  place  to  squat  somewhere  on  the  banks  of  the  Big  Warrior. 
But,  a  truce  to  this.  Here  Webber  approaches.  Do  not 
forget,  Williams  —  and,  I  am  your  friend.  We  must  act  togeth 
er  for  mutual  benefit.  Mum,  now." 

Webber  drew  nigh,  bringing  with  him  the  emissary  who  haJ 
gone  after  Pickett  and  John  Hurdis.  They  remained  with  ;.he 
pitchers,  among  whom,  I  may  add,  Pickett  was,  at  tl»v»  ''.me,  in 
corporated,  and  working  away  as  lustily  as  the  most  expert. 
But  I  had  no  time  allowed  me  to  note  either  his,  or  the  labors 
of  John  Ilurdis.  My  attention  was  instantly  challenged  by 
Webber,  who,  unless  angry,  was  not  a  man  of  many  -\\  ords. 

"Get  yourself  in  readiness,  Williams;  I  will  set  you  on  the 
track  in  an  hour,  and  show  you  a  part  of  the  route." 

I  proceeded  to  obey,  and  it  was  not  long,  as  may  be  conjec 
tured,  before  I  wr.s  properly  mounted  for  that  journey  whicfe. 


360  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

was  to  eventuate  in  the  rescue  of  my  friend's  child  from  the 
cruel  sacrifice  which  was  at  hand.  Webber  and  myself  set  off 
together.  Foster  shook  my  hand  at  parting,  and  his  last  phrase 
was  one,  which,  between  us,  had  a  meaning  beyond  that  which 
met  the  ear. 

"  I  trust  you  will  find  your  man,  Williams,  though  he  even 
puts  the  Ohio  between  us.  Let  us  see  you  back  soon." 

I  was  annoyed  by  the  searching  stare  of  the  keen-eyed  emis 
sary.  Ilis  eyes  were  never  once  taken  from  my  countenance, 
from  the  moment  of  my  introduction  to  him ;  and,  I  am  sure, 
thai  lie  had  some  indistinct  remembrance  of  me,  though,  fortu 
nately,  not  of  a  sufficiently  strong  character  to  do  more  than 
confuse  him.  I  dreaded  discovery  every  moment,  but,  though 
watching  me  keenly  to  the  last,  with  a  most  unpleasant  per 
tinacity  of  stare,  he  suffered  me  to  ride  away  without  the  ut 
terance  of  those  suspicions  which  I  I  joked  moD  ently  to  he*i 
spoken. 


TROUBLES  AT  GRAFTON  LODGE. 


CHAPTER    XLIX. 

TROUBLES    AT    GRAFTON    LOUUC. 

"  Cold  tidings,  sir, 

T  bring  you,  of  new  sorrows.     You  have  need 
To  make  division  of  your  wide  estate, 
And  pnrcel  out  your  stores.     Take  counsel,  sir, 
How  you  v/ill  part  from  life;  for  'tis  my  fear 
That  you  must  part  from  hope,  which  life  more  neev?p. 
Than  the  dull  fare  it  feeds  on." — Knight  Errant, 

WE  did  not  delay,  having  now  put  ourselves  in  readiness,  but 
*fter  a  few  brief  words  of  parting,  we  left  Foster  and  the  emit*- 
sary,  whose  searching  eyes  I  was  truly  anxious  to  escape  from. 
That  fellow's  stare  gave  me  more  uneasiness,  and  a  greater 
idea  of  the  danger  that  I  ran,  than  any  other  one  circumstance 
»ince  my  connection  with  the  ruffians.  Foster  did  not  let  me 
ieave  him  without  giving  me  some  expressive  glances.  I  could 
see  that  he  was  desirous  of  saying  something  to  me,  which,  1 
fancied,  must  concern  Eberly ;  but  we  had  no  opportunity  for 
a  private  word  after  Webber  joined  us,  and  to  make  an  oppo* 
tunity  was  wishing  far  more  than  I  desired  or  Foster  was  pre 
pared  for.  Off  we  went  at  full  gallop,  and  we  were  soon  out 
of  sight  of  the  encampment,  and  rough  hills  were  momently 
rising  between  us.  In  the  course  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  I 
found  myself  going  once  more  over  the  very  spot  where  we 
found  the  body  of  William  Carrington.  I  shuddered  involun 
tarily  as  my  eyes  rested  upon  it ;  the  next  moment  I  saw  the 
glance  of  Webber  fixed  curiously  on  the  same  spot,  and  a  slight 
smile  played  upon  his  lips,  as  he  caught  my  look  of  inquiry. 

"A  tall  fellow  was  tumbled  here  only  the  other  day,"  he 
said,  with  an  air  of  indifference  that  vexed  me  "  who  might 
kave  been  alive  and  kickir?  now.  *f  1,1s  ]..<:<>]*  had  been  less 


362  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

I  now  drew  Higher,  and  pretended  a  curiosity  to  hear  the 
story,  but  he  baffled  my  desire  as  he  replied  — 

"  Not  now :  another  time,  when  we  are  more  at  leisure,  I'll 
tell  you  stories  of  what  I've  seen  and  know,  to  make  you  open 
your  eyes  much  wider  than  you  do  now.  But  here  we  reach 
the  road,  the  '  Day-Blind'  as  they  call  it,  for  it's  so  deep  and 
narrow  that  there's  always  a  shade  over  it.  This  road  taking 
the  left-hni  d  fork,  v,  hen  you  get  on  a  rnile  farther,  takes  you 
direct  to  Gvifton's.  You'll  see  the  avenue  leading  to  the  lodge, 
to  the  right,  and  a  pretty  place  enough  it  is.  You  can  lie  to 
night  at  a  house  which  you'll  see  two  miles  after  you  pass  Graf- 
ton's,  where  you'll  find  two  of  our  people.  Give  them  the  first 
two  signs,  and  they'll  know  who  you  are,  and  provide  you  with 
any  help  you  may  call  for.  But  the  places  which  you  must 
watch  in  particular  are  the  two  avenues  to  the  lodge  —  the  front 
and  rear.  There  is  a  thick  wood  before  the  back  avenue,  where 
we've  got  one  of  our  men  watching  now.  You  must  relieve  him 
and  send  him  to  me  instantly.  lie  will  not  need  you  to  urge 
him  to  full  speed  if  you  will  only  remember  to  tell  him  that  '  the 
saddle  wants  nothing  but  the  stirrups.'  He'll  understand  *liat, 
and  come." 

"  But  what  does  that  mean  ?"  I  demanded. 

"Oh,  nothing  much  —  it's  a  little  matter  between  us,  that 
doesn't  at  all  concern  the  fraternity." 

"  What !  have  you  secrets  which  the  club  is  not  permitted  to 
share  ?" 

"  Yes,  when  they  do  not  conflict  with  our  laws.  An  affair 
with  a  petticoat  is  a  matter  of  this  sort." 

"And  yet  such  is  Eberly's  affair." 

"  True ;  but  Eberly  would  sacrifice  all  to  the  petticoat,  and 
for  that  we  punish  him.  He  might  go  after  a  dozen  women  if 
he  pleased,  and  have  a  seraglio  like  the  Grand  Turk,  and  none 
of  us  would  say  him  nay,  if  he  did  not  allow  them  to  play  Deli 
lah  with  him,  and  get  his  secret.  But  listen,  now,  while  I  give 
you  the  necessary  information." 

Here  we  stopped  a  while,  and  he  led  me  into  the  woods 
where  he  gave  a  brief  account  of  Graftou  family  and  lodge,  in 
formed  me  of  one  or  two  hiding-places  of  Eberly,  and  even  told 
me  at  what  hour  I  might  look  to  see  him  arriving  &*  the  aveu^a 


TROUBLES   AT   GRAFTON    LODGE.  obd 

So  keen  had  been  his  watch,  and  that  of  his  creatures,  upon  the 
doomed  fugitive,  that,  as  I  afterward  discovered,  he  was  not  only 
correct  to  the  very  letter  in  what  he  told  me,  but  he  also  knew  every 
movement  which  his  victim  made;  and  there  had  not  been  a  day,  for 
the  three  months  preceding,  in  which  he  had  not  been  able  at  any 
time  to  lay  hands  upon  him  Indeed,  had  the  directions  of  Webber 
been  followed  while  in  the  Sipsy  swamp,  Eberly  could  not  by  any 
possibility  have  escaped,  unless  through  my  evasion  of  the  mur 
derous  task  which  had  been  then  assigned  me.  I  need  not  add 
that  such  would  have  been  the  case.  Regarding  the  unhappy  youth 
as  not  undeserving  of  punishment,  I  had  yet  no  desire  to  be 
come  his  executioner.  1  had  taken  enough  of  this  duty  on  my 
hands  already  ;  and  my  late  discovery,  touching  John  Hurdis, 
had  increased  the  solemnity  of  the  task  to  a  degree  which  put  the 
intensity  of  my  excitement  beyond  all  my  powers  of  description. 
I  could  now  only  reflect  that  I  had  sworn  in  the  chamber  of 
death,  and  in  the  presence  of  the  dead,  to  execute  the  eternal  sen 
tence  of  justice  upon  the  person  of  my  own  brother.  When 
Webber  left  me  in  that  wood,  I  renewed  the  terrible  oatli  before 
Heaven. 

But  to  my  present  task.  I  rode  forward  as  I  had  been  coun 
selled,  and  soon  came  in  sight  of  the  well-known  lodge,  which, 
whatever  might  be  my  wish,  I  did  not  dare  to  enter,  until  I 
had  first  got  out  of  the  way  of  the  spy  whom  Webber  kept 
upon  it,  and  whom  he  requested  me  to  send  to  him.  Avoiding 
the  entrance  accordingly,  I  fell  into  a  by-path,  which  ran  round 
the  estate,  and  whistling  a  prescribed  tune,  as  I  approached  the 
back  avenue,  I  had  the  satisfaction  to  hear  the  responsive  note 
from  the  wood  opposite.  Who  should  present  himself  at  my 
summons,  but  my  ancient  foe,  the  Tuscaloosa  gambler  whom 
they  called  George?  I  felt  the  strongest  disposition  to  take 
the  scoundrel  by  the  throat,  in  a  mood  betwixt  merriment  and 
anger ;  but  there  was  a  stake  of  too  much  importance  yet  to  be 
played  for,  and  with  praiseworthy  patience  I  forebore.  Subdu 
ing  my  voice,  and  restraining  my  mood  to  the  proper  pitch,  I 
introduced  myself  to  him  in  the  prescribed  form.  I  showed  him 
the  first  two  signs  of  the  club  —  the  sign  of  the  striker,  and  the 
sign  of  the  feeder  —  the  first  being  that  of  the  common  horse- 
thief  or  mail  robber ;  the  other  that  which  empowers  a  member 


RICHARD    IIl'UDIS. 

probe  the  nature  of  the  man  he  meets,  and  secure  him,  if  he 
thinks  he  can,  to  the  uses  of  the  brotherhood.  I  gave  him  my 
assumed  name,  and  the  history  of  my  membership,  and  then 
sent  him  on  his  way  —  happy  to  get  him  out  of  mine  —  to  tne 
brothers  in  the  encampment.  I  waited  with  impatience  till  he 
had  gone  fairly  out  of  sight ;  then,  with  a  full  heart,  and  a  bosoin 
bounding  once  more  vith  freedom,  I  entered  the  avenue,  and 
hurried  forward  to  the  dwelling  of  my  friend. 

My  disguise  was  quite  as  complete  in  concealing  me  from 
Colonel  Grafton  as  it  had  been  in  hiding  me  from  my  foes.  It 
was  with  difficulty  I  persuaded  him  to  know  me.  His  first 
words,  after  he  became  convinced  of  my  identity,  were  — 

"And  the  poor  girl  Emmeline  ?  How  did  she  stand  your 
tidings'?" 

44  She  is  dead."  I  told  him  all  the  particulars  ;  and  accounted 
for  the  disguise  in  which  I  appeared,  by  telling  what  were  the 
novel  duties  which  I  had  undertaken. 

"  You  are  a  bold  man  —  a  very  bold  man,  Mr.  Hurdis.  And 
how  far  have  you  been  successful  ?" 

Briefly,  I  related  to  him  my  meeting  with  Foster ;  the  success 
of  my  plans  ;  IP'S  revelations  to  me  ;  and  the  progress  of  events 
until  I  came  to  the  encampment  in  the  Sipsy  swamp.  These 
he  listened  to  with  an  intense  interest,  and  frequently  inter 
rupted  me  to  relate  little  incidents  within  his  own  knowledge, 
which,  strange  and  unaccountable  before,  found  an  easy  solu 
tion  when  coupled  with  such  as  I  related.  When  I  had  told 
him  thus  far,  I  came  to  an  uneasy  halt.  He  had  evidently  no 
apprehension  that  he  could  be  interested  further  in  such  a  nar 
rative  tlum  as  a  good  citizen  and  a  public  magistrate.  Finding 
me  at  a  pause,  lie  thus  spoke  :  — 

"And  you  left  these  rascals  in  the  Sipsy;  you  have  come 
now  for  assistance,  have  you  not?" 

"  You  are  right,  colonel :  I  have  come  to  get  what  assistance 
I  can  to  bring  them  to  punishment.  But  I  left  them  not  in  the 
Sipsy  ;  they  are  nigher  than  you  think  for,  and  much  more  con 
veniently  situated  for  a  surprise." 

"  Ha  !  in  the  *  Day-Blind*  —  is  it  so  ?  That  has  long  been  a 
suspicious  place ;  and,  if  my  conjecture  is  right,  I  will  do  my 
best  to  ferret  them  out,  arid  clear  it  for  good  and  all." 


TROUBLES  AT  GRAFTON   LODGE.  365 

•'  They  are  near  it,  if  not  in  it,"  was  my  reply.  I  proceeded 
to  describe  the  place,  which  he  very  well  knew. 

"  In  three  days  more,  Hurdis,  I  shall  be  ready  for  the  hunt. 
We  can  not  conveniently  have  it  sooner,  since  a  little  domestic 
matter  will,  for  the  next  day  or  two,  take  up  all  my  attention ; 
and  I  must  forget  the  magistrate  for  a  brief  period  in  the  father. 
You  are  come  in  season,  my  friend,  for  our  family  festivities. 
My  daughter,  you  must  know  — 

"  Let  me  stop  you,  Colonel  Grafton  —  I  do  know  ;  and  I  trust 
you  will  not  regard  the  bearer  of  ill  tidings  as  responsible  for 
the  sorrow  which  he  brings.  Your  daughter,  you  would  tell 
me,  is  to  be  married  to  Mr.  Clifton." 

"  Yes  —  it  is  that.     But  what  ill  tidings?" 

•  Mr.  Clifton  is  with  these  ruffians ;  I  saw  him  in  the  Sipsy 
swamp." 

•'  What !  a  prisoner?" 

1  »ihook  my  head. 

••  Nothing  worse,  I  trust.  They  have  not  murdered  him,  Mr. 
Hurdis  ?  He  lives  ?" 

"  He  lives,  but  is  no  prisoner,  Colonel  Grafton.  It  is  my 
sorrow  to  be  compelled  to  say  that  he  was  with  them  volunta 
rily  when  I  saw  him." 

"  How  !   I  really  do  not  understand  you." 

I  hurried  over  the  painful  recital,  which  he  heard  in  speech 
less  consternation.  The  strong  man  failed  before  me.  He 
leaned  with  a  convulsive  shudder  against  the  mantel-place,  and 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  While  he  stood  thus,  hi? 
daughter  entered  the  room,  with  a  timid  and  sweet  smile  upon 
her  lips,  but  shrunk  back  the  moment  that  she  saw  me.  As  yet, 
none  of  the  family  but  Colonel  Grafton  himself  knew  who  I  was. 
The  father  turned  as  he  heard  her  voice. 

"Julia,"  he  said,  "my  daughter  —  go  to  your  chamber  —  re 
main  there  till  I  send  for  you.  Do  not  leave  it.'' 

His  voice  was  mournful  and  husky,  though  he  strove  to  hide 
his  emotion.  She  saw  it,  and  prepared  to  obey.  He  led  her 
by  the  hand  to  the  door,  looking  back  at  me  the  while ;  and, 
when  there,  sho  whispered  something  ir  his  ears.  He  strove 
to  smile  as  be  l<a%rd  it,  but  the  effort  was  a  feeble  and  ineffeo 
{.ual  one. 


366  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

ri  Go  to  your  mother,  my  child  :  tell  her  that  it  matters  noth 
ing.  And  do  you  keep  your  chamber.  Do  not  come  down 
stairs  till  I  call  you." 

The  girl  looked  at  him  with  some  surprise,  but  she  did  not 
utter  the  question  which  her  eyes  sufficiently  spoke.  Silently 
she  left  the  room,  and  he  returned  to  me  instantly. 

"Ilurdis,  you  have  given  me  a  dreadful  blow  ;  and  I  can  not 
doubt  that  what  you  told  me  you  believe  to  be  the  truth.  But 
may  you  not  be  deceived?  It  is  ever)  thing  to  me  and  my 
child,  if  you  can  think  so-  it  is  more  important,  if  you  arc  not, 
that  I  should  be  certified  of  the  truth.  You  saw  Clifton  in  the 
swamp  with  these  villains  :  that  1  doubt  not.  It  may  be,  too, 
that  you  heard  them  claim  him  as  a  colleague.  This  they 
might  do  —  such  villains  would  do  anything;  they  might  claim 
me  as  well  as  you  ;  for  the  horse-thief  and  the  murderer  would 
not  scruple  to  rob  the  good  name  from  virtue,  and  murder  the 
fair  reputation  of  the  best  of  ns.  They  have  sought  to  destroy 
me  thus  already.  Tell  me,  then,  on  what  you  ground  youi 
belief;  give  me  the  particulars.  It  may  be,  too,  that  Clifton, 
if  he  leagues  with  them  at  all,  docs  so  for  some  purpose  like 
your  own." 

How  easy  would  it  have  been  to  deceive  the  father  —  to  per 
suade  him  to  believe  anything  which  might  have  favored  his 
desires,  though  against  the  very  face  of  reason  and  reflection  ! 

"  I  would  i  could  answer  you  according  to  your  wish,  but  I 
can  not.  I  have  told  you  nothing  but  the  truth  —  what  I  know 
to  be  the  truth  —  if  the  confessions  of  Clifton  himself,  in  my 
hearing,  and  to  the  leader  of  this  banditti,  can  be  received  in 
evidence." 

His  own  confessions?  Great  God  !  can  it  be  possible?  — 
But  I  hear  you.  Go  on,  Mr.  Ilurdis  —  tell  me  all.  But  take  a 
chair,  I  pray  you  ;  be  seated,  if  you  please,  for  I  must." 

lie  strode  over  the  floor  toward  a  seat,  with  a  slowness  of 
movement  which  evidently  proceeded  from  a  desire  to  conceal 
the  feebleness  of  body  which  he  certainly  felt,  and  to  a  certain 
extent  exhibited,  lie  sunk  into  the  chair,  his  hands  clasped, 
and  drooping  between  his  knees,  while  his  head  was  bent  for 
ward,  in  painful  earnestness,  as  I  proceeded  in  my  story.  I 
related,  step  by  step,  all  the  subsequent  particulars  in  1113'  »wr 


TROUBLES   AT   GBAFTON   LODGE.  367 

narrative,  suppressing  those  only  which  did  not  concern  Clif 
ton.  He  heard  me  patiently,  and  without  interruption,  to  the 
end.  A  single  groan  only  escaped  him  as  I  concluded ;  and 
one  brief  exclamation  declared  for  whose  sake  only,  all  his  suf 
fering  was  felt, — 

"  My  poor,  poor  Julia  !" 

Well  might  this  be  his  exclamation ;  and  as  it  came  from 
liis  lips,  while  his  eyes  were  closed,  and  his  head  fell  forward 
upon  his  breast,  I  could  see  the  cherished  hopes  of  a  life  van 
ishing  with  the  breath  of  a  single  moment.  That  daughter  was 
the  pride  of  his  noble  heart.  Nobly  had  he  taught  —  dearly 
had  he  cherished  her;  with  a  fond  hand  he  had  led  her  along 
fhe  pleasant  paths  of  life,  securing  her  from  harm,  and  toiling 
with  equal  care,  for  her  happiness.  And  all  for  what  ?  My 
heart  joined  with  his,  as  I  thought  over  these  things,  and  it 
was  with  difficulty  I  could  keep  my  lips  from  saying  after  his 
own  —  "Poor,  poor  Julia!" 

At  this  moment  a  servant  entered  the  apartment. 

"Mr.  Clifton,  sir!" 

"  Ha  !  comes  he  then!"  was  the  sudden  exclamation  of  the 
/atlier,  starting  from  his  chair,  and,  in  a  single  instant,  throwing 
aside  the  utter  prostration  of  soul  which  appeared  in  his  fea 
tures,  and  which  now  gave  place  to  a  degree  of  energy  and  res 
olution,  which  fully  spoke  for  the  intense  fire  which  had  been 
kindled  in  his  heart. 

"  Show  him  in  !" 

The  servant  disappeared. 

"This  night,  Mr.  Hurdis,  this  man  was  to  have  married  my 
daughter.  You  have  saved  us  just  in  time.  You  speak  of  his 
repentance  —  you  have  almost  striven  to  excuse  him  —  but  it 
will  not  answer.  I  thank  you  —  thank  you  from  my  heart  — 
khat  you  have  saved  us  from  such  connection.  Step  now  into 
this  chamber.  Y^ou  shall  hear  what  he  will  say  —  whether  he 
will  seek  to  carry  out  his  game  of  deception ;  and,  to  the  last, 
endeavor  to  consummate  by  villany,  what  his  villany  had  so 
successfully  begun.  It  is  but  right  that  you  should  hear  his 
answers  to  my  accusation.  He  may  escape  the  vengeance  of 
his  brother  scoundrels  —  but  me  he  shall  not  escape.  He  comes 
—  into  tint  :  Camber,  Mr  Hurdis,  I  must  beg  you  to  retire— 


i568  RICriAKD   HUHDI6. 

bear  with  ine  if  I  seem  rude  in  hurrying  you  thus.  My  misery 
must  excuse  me,  if  I  am  less  heedful  than  I  should  be  of  ordi 
nary  politeness." 

Thus,  with  that  nice  consideration  of  character  which  made 
him  somewhat  a  precisian  in  manners,  he  strove  to  forget  his 
own  feelings  in  his  effort  to  avoid  offending  mine.  At  that  mo 
ment  I  could  have  forgiven  him  a  far  greater  display  of  rude 
ness  than  that  for  which  he  apologized.  When  I  looked  upon 
the  face  of  that  father,  solicitous  to  the  last  degree  for  the  wel- 
^are  of  the  beloved  child  of  whom  such  care  had  been  taken 
and  thought  upon  the  defeat  of  all  his  hopes,  and  possibly  all 
of  hers,  which  had  followed  rny  narration,  I  could  not  but  won 
der  at  the  iron  strength  of  soul  which  could  enable  him  to  bear 
his  disappointment  so  bravely. 

He  conducted  me  into  the  little  room,  to  which  for  the  pres 
ent  he  had  consigned  me,  and  taking  from  it  a  smal)  mahogany 
box,  which  I  readily  conceived  to  be  a  case  of  pistols,  he  re 
turned  instantly  to  the  apartment  which  I  left,  where,  a  mojie  _: 
after,  he  was  joined  by  Clifton. 


CAJPTIVTTT 


CHAPTER   L. 

CAPTIVITY. 

"To  v hat  gulfs 

JL  iir.^le  deviation  from  the  track 
Of  human  duties,  leade.  ever  tlioae  who  claici 
Tlie  homage  of  mankind." — Surdana paint, 

"COLONEL  GKAFTO.X." 

"  Mr.  Clifton,"  were  the  simple  forms  of  addros  employed 
by  the  two  on  first  encountering. 

"  Yon  are  surprised  to  see  me  so  soon,  Colonel  Grafton,"  waa 
the  somewhat  abrupt  speech  of  Clifton  the  next  minute. 

"  Surprised  !  not  a  whit,  sir,"  was  the  quick  reply.  "  You 
Tore  looked  for." 

"Looked  for,  sir!  Ah!  yes,  of  course,  T  was  expected  tc 
jome,  but  not  yet,  sir  —  not  for  some  hours.  You  looked  for 
me,  indeed,  but  you  scarcely  looked  for  the  person  who  now 
seeks  you ;  and  when  you  know  the  business  which  brings  me, 
Colonel  Grafton,  you  will  not,  I  am  afraid,  hold  me  so  welcome 
as  before." 

"  Why  should  you  be  afraid,  Mr.  Clifton  ?  Believe  me,  you 
were  never  more  welcome  than  at  this  very  moment  —  never!" 
was  the  grave  and  emphatic  reply.  "You  seem  surprised,  sir, 
that  I  should  say  so,  but  wherefore  ?  Are  you  surprised  that  I 
should  promptly  welcome  the  man  who  seeks  to  do  so  much 
honor  to  my  farrily  as  to  become  one  of  it  ?  Way  do  you  look 
on  me  so  doubtingly,  Mr.  Clifton  1  Is  there  anything  so  strange 
in  what  I  say  ?" 

"  No,  sir,  nothing,  unless  it  be  in  the  manner  of  your  saying 
it.  If  you  speak,  Colonel  Grafton,  in  sincerity,  you  add  to  the 
weight  of  that  humility  which  already  presses  me  to  the  eartb 


370  RICHARD  in:mia. 

—  if  in  derision  —  if  with  a  foreknowledge  of  what  I  come  to 
say  —  then,  I  must  only  acknowledge  the  justice  of  your  scorn 
and  submit  myself  to  your  indignation." 

"Of  what  you  came  to  say,  Mr.  Clifton  ?"  slowly  replied  the 
half-hesitating  listener.  "  Speak  it  out  then,  sir,  I  pray  you  — 
let  me  hear  what  you  came  to  speak.  And  in  your  revelations 
do  not  give  me  credit  for  too  great  a  foreknowledge,  or  you 
may  make  your  story  too  costive  for  the  truth.  Proceed,  sir  — 
I  listen." 

"  You  seem  already  to  have  heard  something  to  my  disad 
vantage,  Colonel  Grafton.  It  is  my  misfortune  that  you  have 
not  heard  all  that  you  might  have  heard  —  all  that  you  must 
hear.  It- is  my  misery  that  my  lips  alone  must  tell  it." 

The  unfortunate  young  man  paused  for  an  instant,  as  if  under 
the  pressure  of  emotions  too  painful  for  speech.  lie  then 
resumed  :  — 

"  I  come,  sir,  to  make  a  painful  confession  ;  to  tell  you  that 
1  have  imposed  upon  you,  Colonel  Grafton  —  dreadfully  imposed 
upon  you  —  in  more  respects  than  one." 
"  Go  on,  sir." 

"  My  name,  sir,  in  the  first  place,  is  not  Clifton,  but  — 
"  No  matter,  sir,  what  it  is !     Enough,  on  that  point,  that  it 
:s  not  what  you  call  it.     But  the  letters,  sir  —  what  of  thei.it 
How  came  you  by  letters  of  credit  and  introduction  from  my 
known  and  tried  friends  in  Virginia  ?" 
"  They  were  forged,  sir." 

"  Well,  I  might  have  known  that  without  asking.     The  one 
imposition  fairly  implies  the  other." 
"But  not  by  me,  Colonel  Grafton." 

"  They  were  used  by  you,  and  you  know  them  to  be  forged, 
sir.  If  your  new  code  of  morality  can  find  a  difference  between 
the  guilt  of  making  the  lie,  and  that  of  employing  it  \viiru 
made,  I  shall  be  informed,  sir,  if  not  pleased.  Go  on  with  yom 
story,  which  seems  to  concern  iao  ;  and,  considering  the  manner 
of  its  beginning,  the  sooner  you  bring  it  to  an  end  the  better. 
What,  may  I  ask,  did  you  propose  to  yourself  to  gain  by  this 
imposition  ?" 

44  At  first,  sir,  nothing.  I  was  the  creature  —  the  base  instru 
ment  of  tho  baser  malice  of  another.  Withou*  any  object  iny 


•  'AITIVITY.  371 

at  first,  I  was  weak  enough  to  labor  thus  criminally  for 
the  unworthy  objects  of  another." 

"Ha!  indeed!  For  another.  This  is  well — this  is  better 
and  better,  sir;  but  go  on  —  go  on." 

"  But  when  my  imposition,  sir,  had  proved  so  far  successful 
as  to  bring  me  to  the  knowledge  and  the  confidence  of  your 
family  —  when  1  came  to  kiio\\  the  treasure  yju  possessed  in 
the  person  of  your  lovely  daughter  — " 

"Star,  sir  —  imt  a  word  of  her.  Her  name  irmst  not  pass 
your  lips  in  my  hearing,  unless  you  would  have  me  strike  you 
to  my  feet,  for  your  profanity  and  presumption.  It  is  wonder 
ful  to  me,  now,  how  I  can  forbear." 

"  Your  blow,  though  it  crushed  me  into  the  earth,  could  not 
humble  me  more,  Colonel  Grafton,  than  my  own  conscience  has 
already  done,.  1  am  not  unwilling  that  you  should  strike.  I 
came  here  this  day  to  submit,  without  complaint  or  prayer, 
to  any  punishment  which  you  might  deem  it  duo  to  your 
injured  honor  to  inflict.  Hut,  MS  a  part  o^"  the  reparation  which 
1  propose  to  make  to  you.  it  i>  my  carneM  dchire  that  you 
should  hear  me  out." 

"  Reparation,  sir  —  reparation  !  Do  you  talk  to  me  of  repara 
tion —  you  that  have  Moh-n  into  my  bosom,  like  an  insidious 
serpent,  and  tainted  the  happiness,  and  poisoned  all  the  springs 
of  joy  which  1  had  there.  Tell  your  story,  sir  —say  all  that 
you  deem  essential  to  make  your  villany  seem  1  *ss,  but  do  not 
dare  to  speak  of  reparation  f«»r  wrongs  that  you  can  not  repair 
—  wounds  thut  no  art  of  yours,  artful  though  you  have  proved 
yourself,  can  ever  heal." 

"  1  do  not  hope  to  repair — I  feel  that  it  is  beyond  my  power 
to  heal  them.  I  do  not  come  for  that.  I  come  simply  to  de 
clare  the  truth  —  to  acknowledge  the  falsehood  —  and,  in  for 
bearing  to  continue  a  course  of  evil,  and  in  professing  amend 
ment  for  the  future,  to  do  what  I  can  for  the  atonement  of  what 
is  evil  in  the  past.  To  repair  my  wrongs  to  you  and  yours, 
Colonel  Grafton,  is  not  within  my  hope.  If  it  were,  sir,  my 
humility  would  be  less  than  it  is,  and,  perhaps,  your  indulgence 
greater." 

"  Do  not  trust  to  that,  sir  —  do  not  trust  to  th.it.  But  we  will 
spare  unnecessary  words.  Your  professions  for  the  future  ar* 


372  RICHARD 

wise  and  well  enough ;  it  is  to  be  Loped  that  you  will  be  prj 
fcred  to  perform  them.  At  present,  however,  our  business  is 
with  what  is  past,  of  evil,  not  with  what  is  to  come,  of  good. 
You  say  that  you  were  set  on  by  another  to  seek  my  confidence 
— that  another  prepared  the  lies  by  which  you  effected  your 
object.  Who  was  that  other  ?  Who  was  that  master-spirit  to 
T»  hich  your  own  yielded  such  sovereign  control  over  truth  and 
reason,  and  all  honesty  ?  Answer  me  that,  if  you  would  prove 
your  contrition." 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,  but  I  may  not  tell  you  that.  I  may  not 
betray  the  confidence  of  another,  even  though  I  secured  your 
pardon  by  it." 

"  Indeed  !  But  your  principles  are  late  and  reluctant.  This 
is  what  is  called  '  honor  among  thieves/  You  could  betray  my 
honor,  and  the  confidence  of  a  man  of  honor,  but  you  can  not 
betray  the  confidence  of  a  brother  rogue." 

"  My  wrong  to  you,  Colonel  Grafton,  I  repent  too  deeply  to 
suffer  myself  to  commit  a  like  wrong  against  another,  however 
unworthy  he  may  be.  Let  me  accuse  myself,  sir;  let  me,  I 
pray  you,  declare  all  my  own  offences,  and  yield  myself  up  to 
your  justice,  but  do  not  require  me  to  betray  the  secrets  of 
another." 

"  What !  though  that  other  be  a  criminal — though  that  othei 
be  the  outlaw  from  morals,  which  you  should  be  from  society, 
and  trains  his  vipers  up  to  sting  the  hands  that  take  them  into 
the  habitation^  of  the  unwary  and  the  confiding !  Your  sense 
of  moral  justice  seems  to  be  strangely  confounded,  sir." 

"  It  may  be — I  feel  it  is,  Colonel  Grafton,  but  I  am  bound 
to  keep  this  secret,  and  will  not  reveal  it.  It  is  enough  that  I 
am  ready  to  suffer  for  the  offence  to  which  I  have  weakly  and 
basely  suffered  myself  to  be  instigated." 

•'  You  shall  suffer,  sir  ;  by  the  God  of  Heaven  you  shall  suffer, 
if  it  be  left  in  this  old  arm  to  inflict  due  punishment  for  your 
treachery.  You  shall  not  escape  me.  The  sufferings  of  my 
child  shall  determine  yours.  Every  pang  which  slu>  endures 
shall  drive  the  steel  deeper  into  your  vitals  !  But  proceed,  sir, 
you  have  more  to  say.  You  have  other  offences  to  narrate  —  I 
will  hear  you." 

"  T  feel    that  you    will    not   heed  my  repentance.     I  know 


CAPTIVITY.  87  & 

too,  why  your  indulgence  should  be  beyond  myhope.  I  do  not 
ask  forgiveness,  which  I  know  it  to  be  impossible  that  you 
should  grant ;  I  only  pray  that  you  will  now  believe  me,  Colo 
nel  Graftou,  for  before  Heaven  I  will  tell  you  nothing  but  the 
truth." 

"  Go,  on,  sir,  tell  your  story ;  your  exhortation  is  of  littlo 
m:e,  for  the  truth  needs  no  prayer  for  its  prop.  It  must  stand 
without  one  or  it  is  not  truth.  As  for  my  belief,  that  can  not 
effect  it.  Truth  is  as  certainly  secure  from  my  doubts,  as  I  am 
sorry  to  think  she  has  been  foreign  to  your  heart  for  a  long 
season.  If  you  have  got  her  back  there,  you  are  fortunate, 
thrice  fortunate.  You  will  do  well  if  you  can  persuade  her  to 
remain.  Go  on,  go  on,  sir." 

"  Your  unmeasured  scorn,  Colonel  Grafton,  helps  to  strengthen 
me.  It  is  true,  it  can  not  lessen  my  offence  to  you  and  yours, 
but  it  is  no  small  part  of  the  penalty  which  should  follow  them ; 
and  holding  it  such,  my  punishments  grow  lighter  with  every 
moment  which  I  endure  them." 

"  Trust  not  that.  1  tell  you,  William  Clifton,  or  whatever  else 
may  be  your  true  name  —  for  which  I  care  not  —  that  I  have 
that  tooth  of  fire  gnawing  in  my  heart,  which  nothing,  perhaps, 
short  of  all  the  blood  which  is  in  yours  can  quench  or  satisfy. 
Think  not  that  I  give  up  my  hope  of  revenge  as  I  consent  to 
hear  you.  The  delay  but  whets  the  appetite.  I  but  seek  in 
thought  for  the  sort  of  punishment  which  would  seem  most 
fitting  to  your  offence." 

"  I  will  say  nothing,  Colonel  Grafton,  to  arrest  or  qualify  it 
—  let  your  revenge  be  full.  The  blood  will  not  flow  more  freely 
from  my  heart,  when  your  hand  shall  knock  for  it,  than  does 
my  present  will,  in  resignation,  to  your  demand  for  vengeance. 
Let  me  only,  I  pray  you,  say  a  few  words,  which  it  seems  to 
me  will  do  you  no  offence  to  hear,  and  which  I  feel  certain  i* 
will  be  a  great  relief  to  me  to  speak.  Will  you  hear  me,  sir  ?" 

The  humility  of  the  guilty  youth  seemed  not  without  its 
effect  on  the  heated,  but  noble  old  man,  who  replied  promptly : 

"Surely,  sir  —  God  forbid  that  I  should  refuse  to  hear  the 
criminal.  Go  on  —  speak." 

'•  1  am  come  of  good  family,  Colonel  Grafton  — "  began  the 
youth 


374  RICHARD    HURDIS. 

"  Certainly  — ^ I  doubt  not  that.  Never  rogue  yet  that  did 
not." 

A  pause  ensued.  The  voice  of  the  youth  was  half  stifled, 
as  with  conflicting  emotions,  when  he  endeavored  to  speak 
again.  But  lie  succeeded. 

"I  am  an  only  son  —  a  mother  —  a  feeble,  infirm  mother — 
looked  to  me  for  assistance  and  support.  A  moment  of  dread- 
!ul  necessity  pressed  upon  us,  and  in  the  despair  and  appre 
hension  which  the  emergency  brought  with  it  to  my  mind,  I 
soiiunitted  nn  error  —  a  crime,  Colonel  Grafton  —  I  appropriated 
tlic'  money  of  another  !" 

"A  lit  beginning  to  so  active  a  life  —  but  go  on." 

"  Not  to  my  use,  Colonel  Grafton  —  not  to  my  use,  nor  for  any 
pleasure  or  appetite  of  iny  own,  did  I  apply  that  ill-got  spoil. 
It  was  to  save  from  suffering  and  a  worse  evil,  the  mother  which 
had  borne  me." 

"I  believe,  Mr.  Clifton,  in  no  such  necessity,"  was  the  stern 
reply.  "  In  a  country  like  ours,  no  man  need  steal,  nor  lie,  nor 
cheat.  The  bread  of  life  is  procured  with  no  difficulty  by  any 
man  having  his  proportion  of  limbs  and  sinews,  and  not  too 
lazy  and  vicious  for  honest  employment.  You  could  surely 
have  relieved  your  parent  without  a  resort  to  the  offence  you 
speak  of." 

"True,  sir  —  I  might.  But  I  did  not  know  it  then — I  was 
a  youth  without  knowledge  of  the  world  or  its  resources. 
Brought  up  in  seclusion,  and  overcome  by  the  sudden  terror  of 
debt,  and  the  law  — " 

"  Which,  it  seems,  has  kept  you  in  no  such  wholesome  fear 
to  the  end  of  the  chapter,  i'ity  for  both  our  sakes  that  it  had 
not.  But  to  make  a  long  story  short,  Mr.  Clifton,  and  to  relieve 
you  from  the  pleasure  or  the  pain  of  telling  it,  know,  sir,  that  I 
am  acquainted  with  all,  and,  perhaps,  much  more  than  you  arc 
willing  to  relate." 

"  Indeed,  sir  —  but  how  —  how  came  you  by  this  knowledge  ?" 

"  That  is  of  no  importance,  or  but  little.  Not  an  hour  before 
you  made  your  appearance,  I  received  an  account  of  your  true 
character  and  associates  —  thank  Heaven!  in  sufficient  time  to 
be  saved  from  the  fatal  connection  into  which  my  child  had  so 
fallen.' 


CAPTIVITY.  376 

"  She  should  not  have  fallen,  Colonel  Graftun,"  said  Clifton 
solemnly.  "  I  came  on  purpose  to  declare  the  truth,  sir." 

"So  1  belie*  Mr.  Clifton;  and  it  is  well  for  you,  and, 
perhaps,  well  for  .PC,  that  you  were  so  prompt  to  declare 
L  c  truth  when  you  made  your  appearance.  Had  you  but 
pafe~3cl  for  five  minutes  —  had  you  lingered  in  your  self-exposure 
—  I  had  put  a  bullet  through  your  head  with  as  little  remorse, 
as  I  should  have  shot  the  wolf  which  aimed  to  prey  upon  my 
little  ones.  I  had  put  my  pistols  in  readiness  for  th«/.t  purpose. 
They  are  this  instant  beneath  my  hands.  Nothing  but  your 
timely  development  could  have  saved  you  from  death,  and  even 
that  would  not  have  availed,  but  that  you  have  shown  a  degree 
of  contrition  during  your  confession,  to  which  I  could  not  shut 
my  «?ye&  Know,  sir,  that  I  not  only  knew  of  the  deception 
prauised  npon  me,  but  of  your  connection  with  the  daring 
outhnv,  fi\w  overrun  the  country;  and  from  whom,  by  the 
way,  yc  .  have  much  more  at  this  moment  to  fear,  than  you  can 
ever  havo  reason  to  fear  from  me.  Their  emissaries  are  even 
now  in  pursuit  of  you,  thirsting  for  your  blood." 

'•  Colonel  Grafton,  tell  me  —  1  pray  you  tell  me  —  how  know 
you  all  this." 

"  Is  it  not  true  ?" 

"Ay!  —  ay!  true  as  gospel,  though  my  lips,  though  I  per 
ished  for  denying,  should  never  have  revealed  it." 

"  What !  you  would  still  have  kept  bond  with  these  outlaws  V 

:t  No,  sir ;  but  I  would  not  have  revealed  their  secrets." 

"But  you  shall,  sir  —  you  shall  do  more.  You  shall  guide 
me  and  others  to  the  place  where  they  keep.  You  shall  help  to 
deliver  them  into  the  hands  of  justice." 

"Never,  sir!  never!"  was  the  quick  reply. 

"  Then  you  perish  by  the  common  hangman,  Mr.  Clifton," 
said  Colonel  Grafton.  "  Either  you  deliver  them  up  to  punish 
ment,  or  you  die  for  your  share  in  their  past  offences." 

"  Be  it  so  —  I  can  perish,  you  will  find,  without  fear,  though  1 
may  have  lived  without  honor.  Let  me  leave  you  now,  Colonel 
Grafton  —  let  me  pass." 

"  You  pass  not  here,  while  I  have  strength  to  keep  you,  sir," 
said  Grafton ;  and  as  these  words  reached  my  ears,  I  heard  a 
rushing  sound,  and  then  a  rtruggle.  With  this  movement,  J 


376  RICHARD    IIURDIS. 

opened  the  door,  and  entered  the  apartment.  They  were 
closely  grappled  as  they  met  my  sight,  and  though  it  was 
evident  enough  that  Eberly  studiously  avoided  the  application 
of  his  whole  force  in  violence  to  Graft  on,  it  was  not  the  less 
obvious  that  he  was  using  it  all  in  the  endeavor  to  elude  him, 
and  break  away.  I  did  not  pause  a  moment  to  behold  the 
strife,  but  making  forward,  I  grasped  the  fugitive  around  the 
body,  and  lifting  him  from  the  floor,  laid  him,  in  another  instant, 
at  full  length  upon  it.  This  done,  I  put  rny  knee  upon  hi.- 
breast,  and  presenting  my  dirk-knife  to  his  throat  I  exaewJ 
from  him  a  constrained  and  sullen  submission. 


STRATAGEMS.  877 


CHAPTER    LI. 

STRATAGEMS. 

"The  sun  has  act; 

A  pjatoful  evening  doth  descend  upon  us, 
And  brings  on  the  long  night" — SCJJILLKH. 

To  DISPOSE  of  1)5m  now  was  a  next  consideration,  and  one  Df 
some  little  difficulty.  It  was  no  wish  of  mine,  and  certainly 
still  less  a  wish  with  Colonel  Grafton,  to  hold  the  unfortunate 
a'lid  misguided  youth  in  bondage  for  trial  by  the  laws.  This 
was  tacitly  understood  between  us.  By  the  statements  of  his 
associates,  it  was  clear  enough  that  he  had  been  a  profitless 
comrade,  doing  nothing  to  earn  the  applause,  or  even  approval 
of  the  criminal  ;  and  as  little,  if  we  except  the  mere  fact  of  his 
being  connected  with  such  a  fraternity,  to  merit  the  punishment 
of  the  laws.  His  hands  had  never  been  stained  by  blood  ;  and, 
setting  aside  his  first  offence  against  virtue,  and  that  which 
brought  him  into  such  perilous  companionship  with  vice,  we 
*.new  nothing  against  him  of  vicious  performance.  Apart  from 
•his,  the  near  approximation  which  he  had  made  toward  a  union 
with  the  family  of  Colonel  Grafton,  however  mortifying  such 
<tii  event  may  have  become  to  his  pride,  was  calculated  to  pro 
duce  a  desire  in  his  mind  that  as  little  notoriety  as  possible 
nhould  bfc  given  to  the  circumstances,  and  even  had  Eberly  been 
•iiore  guilty  than  he  was,  I,  for  ine,  would  rather  infinitely 
have  suffered  him  to  escape,  than  to  subject  the  poor  girl, 
wuuse  affections  he  had  won.  to  the  constant  pain  which  she  must 
iiav,-,  feU  by  the  publication  of  the  proceedings  against  him. 
Jiiven  as  it  was,  her  trial  was  painful  enough,  as  well  to  those 
who  witnessed  her  sufferings  n  !o  the  poor  heart  that  was  com 
pelled  to  bear  them.  Enough  of  t-liifl  .-.t  present. 

iiut  it  was  essential  at  this  moment   when  it  was  our  design 


878  RICHARD 

to  entrap  the  heads  of  tlie  Mystic  Brotherhood,  that  Eberly, 
though  we  refrained  to  prosecute  him  before  the  r  oocr  tribu 
nal,  should  not  be  suffered  to  escape  our  custody,  i  y  his  reluc 
tance  to  accuse,  or  to  act  against  these  outlaws,  he  evidently 
held  for  them  a  degree  of  regaru,  which  might  prompt  him,  if 
permitted,  to  apprize  them  of  their  danger,  even  though  he  may 
have  held  himself  aloof,  as  he  had  promised,  from  all  future  con 
nection  with  them.  But  how  and  where  to  secure  him  was  aa- 
->ther  difficulty  for  which  an  an  v  jr  was  not  so  readily  provided. 
To  imprison  him  in  the  dwelling,  in  which  that  very  day  he  was 
to  have  found  his  bride,  and  in  which,  as  yet  uninformed  of  the 
melancholy  truth,  that  unconscious  and  full-hearted  maiden  was 
even  then  preparing  to  become  so,  was  a  necessity  of  awkward 
complexion ;  and  yet  to  that  necessity  we  were  compelled  to 
come.  After  deliberating  upon  the  matter,  with  an  earnestness 
which  left  no  solitary  suggestion  unconsidered,  the  resolution 
was  adopted  to  secure  the  prisoner  in  the  attic,  until  our  pursuit 
of  his  comrades  was  fairly  over.  This,  it  was  our  confident 
hope,  would  be  the  case  by  the  close  of  the  day  following,  and 
only  until  that  time  did  we  resolve  that  he  should  be  a  prisoner. 
Ills  comrades  once  secured,  and  his  way  of  flight,  it  was  intend 
ed,  should  be  free.  How  our  determination  on  this  subject  was 
evaded  and  rendered  unavailing,  the  following  pages  will  show. 

His  course  once  resolved  upon,  and  the  measures  of  Colonel 
Graft  on  were  prompt  and  decisive. 

"  Keep  watch  upon  him  here,  Hurdis;  let  him  not  stir,  while 
I  prepare  Mrs.  Grafton  with  a  kuowlege  of  this  unhappy  bus;- 
ness.  My  daughter,  too,  must  know  it  soon  or  late,  and  bc^tei 
Jiis  hour  than  the  next,  since  the  strife  will  be  the  sooner  o\«j- 
They  must  be  out  of  the  way  when  we  take  him  up  the  stai  t 
—  out  of  hearing  as  out  of  sight.  Once  there,  I  have  a  favor  \e 
"ellow  who  will  guard  him  as  rigidly  as  I  should  myself." 

He  left  me,  and  was  gone,  perhaps,  an  hour  —  it  was  a  tedi 
ous  hour  to  me,  in  the  painful  watch  that  I  was  compelled  to 
keep  over  the  unhappy  prisoner.  In  this  time  he  had  commu 
nicated  the  discovery  to  both  his  wife  and  Julia ;  and  a  single 
uhriek,  that  faintly  reached  our  ears,  and  the  hurried  pace  c* 
many  feet  going  to  and  fro  in  the  adjacent  chambers,  apprized 
•is  of  the  very  uioim-nt  wlirn  tin-  soul  of  tLo.  poor  maklca  \vas 


dTRATAGEMS.  379 

anguish-stricken  by  the  first  intelligence  of  her  hapless  situa 
tion.  My  eye  was  fixed  intently  upon  the  face  of  Eberly,  and 
wnen  mat  snriek  reached  us,  I  could  see  a  smile,  which  had  in 
it  something  of  triumph,  overspread  his  cheek,  and,  though  it 
ind  not.  rest  there  a  sinjrle  moment  it  vexed  me  to  behold  it. 

"  Do  you  exult,"  I  demanded,  <l  that  you  have  made  a  victim 
of  one  so  lovely  and  so  young?  Do  y.m  rejoice,  sir  in  the  y,an? 
tnal  you  inflict  ?" 

"  Xo  !  God  forbid  !"  was  his  immediate  answer.  "  If  it  were 
tt-ith  me  now,  she  should  instantly  forget  not  only  her  present, 
\mt  all  sorrows  —  she  should  forget  that  she  had  ever  known  so 
miserable  a  wretch  as  myself!  But  is  it  wonderful  that  I  should 
feel  a  sentiment  of  pleasure,  to  find  myself  an  object  of  regard 
in  the  eyes  of  one  so  pure  —  so  superior?  Is  it  strange  that  I 
should  rejoice  to  find  that  I  am  not  an  outcast  from  all  affections, 
as  I  am  from  all  hopes  —  that  there  is  one  angelic  spirit,  who 
may  y°,t  intercede  for  me  at  the  bar  of  Heaven,  and  pray  for, 
and  command  mercy,  though  she  may  not  even  hope  for  it  OD 
e*irtb  ?" 

Grafton  now  returned,  and  the  flush  of  anger  was  heightened 
on  his  face,  though  I  could  see  a  tear  even  then  glistening  in 
his  eye. 

"  Mr.  Clifton,"  he  said  calmly,  but  peremptorily,  "  we  must 
secure  your  person  for  the  night." 

"My  life  is  at  your  service,  Colonel  Grafton  —  I  tendev  it 
freely.  As  I  have  no  hopes  in  life  now,  I  do  not  care  to  live. 
But  I  will  not  promise  to  remain  bound,  if  I  can  break  from  my 
prison.  I  came  to  you  of  my  own  free  will,  without  any  impulse 
beside;  and,  though  I  thought  it  not  unlikely  when  I  came  ana 
revealed  my  story  Miat  you  would  take  my  life,  I  had  no  fear 
that  you  would  ocastitute  yourself  my  jailer.  I  am  not  pre 
pared  for  bonds.' 

"Make  what  distinctions  you  please,"  was  the  cold  reply; 
"  you  hear  my  resolution.  It  will  be  my  fault  if  you  escape, 
until  I  myself  declare  your  freedom.  I  Uust  that  you  will  not 
render  it  necessary  that  we  shouu'  use  "jrce  to  place,  you  in  th« 
chamber  assigned  for  you." 

"Force!"  he  exclaimed  fiei-ooiy,  «ou  '  jjere  was  a  keen  mo 
mentary  Gashing  of  the  youth's  eye,  as  he  heard  these  words, 


880  RICHARD    EURDIS 

that  proved  him  a  person  to  resent  as  quickly  as  he  felt  but 
the  emotion  soon  gave  way  to  another  of  more  controlling  influ 
ence.  His  tone  changed  to  mildness,  as  he  proceeded : — 

"  No,  sir ;  no  force  shall  be  necessary.  Lead  me  where  you 
please.  Do  with  me  as  you  please.  I  know  not  whether  it 
would  not  be  better  and  wiser  for  me,  henceforward,  to  forego 
my  own  will  and  wishes  altogether.  God  knows  it  had  been 
far  better  and  wiser,  had  I  distrusted  them  half  as  much  hither 
to  as  I  now  distrust  them.  I  had  now  —  but,  lead  on,  sir;  con 
duct  me  as  you  will,  and  where  you  will.  I  will  not  trouble 
you  longer  —  even  with  my  despondency.  It  is  base  enough  to 
be  humbled  as  I  am  now  —  I  will  not  further  debase  myself  by 
the  idle  language  of  regret.  I  have  put  down  a  boy's  stake  in 
he  foolish  game  which  I  have  played  —  I  will  bear  with  its 
iuas  as  a  man.  I  will  go  before  you,  sir,  or  follow  even  as  you 
desire.  It  shall  not  be  necessary  to  employ  violence.  I  am 
I'eady." 

We  could  not  help  pitying  the  youth,  as  we  conducted  hiuc 
up  stairs  into  the  small  garret-room,  which  had  been  prepared 
for  him.  He  was  evidently  of  noble  stuff  at  first  —  naturally 
well  fashioned  in  mind  and  moral  —  with  instincts,  which,  but 
for  circumstances,  would  have  carried  him  right — and  feelings 
gentle  and  noble  enough  to  have  wrought  excellence  within 
him,  could  it  have  been  that  he  had  been  blessed  with  a  better 
education,  and  less  doubtful  associates,  than  it  was  his  fortune 
to  have  found.  He  certainly  rose  greatly  in  my  esteem  within 
the  last  two  hours,  simply  by  the  propriety  of  his  manners,  and 
the  degree  of  correct  feeling  with  which  he  had,  without  any 
ostentation,  coupled  their  exhibition.  Securing  the  windows 
as  well  as  we  could,  and  placing  a  sturdy  and  confidential  ser 
vant  at  the  door  of  the  chamber,  which  was  double-locked  upon 
him,  we  descended  to  the  lower  apartment,  where  we  imme 
diately  proceeded  to  confer  upon  the  othei  toils  before  us. 

"  There  is  some  public  §-ood,';  said  Colonel  Grafton,  with  a 
degree  of  composure,  which  spoke  admirably  for  the  control 
which  his  mind  had  over  his  feelings  —  "there  is  some  public 
good  coming  from  the  personal  evil  which  has  fallen  to  rny  lot 
The  proposed  festival,  which  was  iliis  night  to  have  taken  place, 
hrin>js  together  the  verv  friends,  a^  quests,  whom  J  should  have 


STRATAGEMS.  881 

sought  in  our  proposed  .adventure  to-morrow,  and  whom  it  would 
have  taken  me  some  time  to  have  hunted  up,  and  got  in  readi 
ness.  Our  party  was  to  have  been  large,  and  I  trust  that  it 
will  be,  though  the  occasion  now  is  so  much  less  loving  and  at 
tractive  than  was  expected." 

This  was  said  with  some  bitterness,  and  a  pause  ensued,  in 
wh'ch  Grai'ton  turned  away  from  me  and  proceeded  to  the  win 
dow.  When  he  returned,  he  had  succeeded  quite  in  oblitera 
ting  the  traces  of  that  grief  which  he  was  evidently  unwilling 
that  his  face  should  show.  lie  continued  : — 

"  We  shall  certainly  have  some  fifteen  able-bodied  and  fear 
less  men,  not  including  ourselves ;  there  may  be  more.  Some 
of  them  will,  I  am  sure,  bring  their  weapons;  they  have  done 
so  usually ;  and,  for  the  rest,  I  can  make  out  to  supply  them,  I 
think.  You  shall  see  I  have  a  tolerable  armory,  which  though 
anything  but  uniform,  can  be  made  to  do  mischief  in  the  hands 
of  men  able  and  willing  enough  when  occasion  serves  to  use  it 
There  is  a  rifle  or  two,  an  old  musket,  two  excellent  double- 
jaiTelled  guns,  and  a  few  pistols,  all  of  which  can  be  made  use 
of.  You,  I  believe,  are  already  well  provided." 

I  showed  him  my  state  of  preparation,  and  lie  then  proceed 
ed:— 

"  I  know  the  region  where  these  fellows  harbor,  much  better 
than  you  do,  and,  perhaps,  much  more  intimately  than  they  ima 
gine.  My  plan  is  to  surprise  them  by  daybreak.  If  we  can 
do  this,  our  fifteen  or  twenty  men  will  be  more  than  a  match 
for  their  thirty  And  then,  I  trust,  we  have  no  less  an  advan 
tage  in  the  sort  of  men  we  bring  to  the  conflict ;  men  of  high 
character,  and  among  the  most  resolute  of  the  FUI -rounding  conn 
try.  I  have  no  doubt  that  we  shall  be  able  to  destroy  at  least 
one  half  of  them,  and  disperse  the  rest.  We  must  strike  at 
^our  master-spirits  —  your  Foster  and  your  Wobber  —  though 
the  former,  according  to  your  account,  seems  not  without  his 
good  qualities.  The  latter  is  a  tough  villain,  but  he  fears  me, 
deny  it  as  he  may.  If  he  did  not,  having  such  a  feeling  toward 
me  as  he  has  so  openly  avowed,  he  would  have  drawn  trigger 
on  me  before  now.  I  must  endeavor,  this  time,  to  wipe  out  old 
scores,  and  balance  all  my  accounts  with  him.  These  two,  and 
one  or  two  more  provided  for,  and  we  may  be  content  with  the 


382  RICHARD   IIURDIS. 

dispersion  of  the  rest.  I  care  nothing  for  the  pitiful  rascals  that  fol 
low —  let  them  go." 

But  such  was  not  my  thought.  There  wa".  one  of  these  pitiful 
rascals  whom  it  brought  the  scarlet  to  my  cheek  to  think  on.  Brother 
though*  he  was,  he  was  the  murderer  of  William  Carrington,  and  I 
had  sworn,  and  neither  he  nor  Pickett  could  escape,  according  to  my 
oath.  But  of  this  I  said  nothing  to  Colonel  Grafton.  I  was  r-solved 
that  John  Hurdis  should  perish,  but  that  he  should  perish  namelessly. 
There  was  a  family  pride  still  working  in  my  breast,  that  counselled 
me  to  be  silent  in  respect  to  him.  We  proceeded  in  our  arrange 
ments. 

"There  are  two  fellows,  belonging  to  this  clan,"  said  Grafton; 
"that  lodge,  if  I  recollect  rightly  what  you  said,  some  two  miles 
below  me." 

"Yes,  at  a  place  called  'the  Trap-Hole,'  if  you  know  such  a  spot. 
It  was  described  to  me  so  that  I  could  find  it  easily,  but  I  know  noth 
ing  of  it." 

"I  know  it  well — it's  an  old  hiding-place  ;  but  I  had  not  thought 
the  hovel  was  inhabited.  These  fellows  must  be  secured  to-night 
at  an  early  hour.  They  are  spies  upon  us,  I  doubt  not,  and  will 
report  everything  that  happens,  if  they  see  anything  unusual.  Cer 
tainly,  it  is  our  policy  to  clear  our  own  course  as  well  and  speedily  as 
possible ;  and  as  soon  as  our  men  come,  which  will  be  by  dark  or 
before,  we  will  set  forth  as  secretly  as  we  may  to  take  them  into 
custody.  This,  as  you  have  the  signs  which  they  acknowledge,  can 
be  done  without  risk.  You  shall  go  before,  and  set  them  at  rest, 
while  we  surround  the  house  and  take  them  suddenly.  They  will 
hardly  lift  weapon  when  they  see  our  force  ;  and,  once  in  our  posses 
sion,  we  will  take  a  lesson  from  the  book  of  Master  Webber,  and  rope 
them  down  in  the  woods,  with  a  handful  of  moss  in  their  mouths  to 
keep  them  from  unnecessary  revelations." 

Such,  so  far,  was  our  contemplated  plan.  It  was  the  most 
direct  of  any,  and,  indeed,  we  hardly  had  a  choice  of  expedi 
ents.  To  come  upon  our  enemy  by  surprise,  or  in  force,  was  all 
that  we  could  do,  having  so  little  lime  allowed  us  for.  prep 
aration  of  any.  sort.  It  was  fortunate;  that  we  had  n  man  like 
Grafton  to  manage — a  man  so  well  esteemed  by  the  friends  he 
led,  and  so  worthy  in  all  respects  of  the  confidence  they  put  in 


STRATAGEMS.  38S 

him.  As  the  hour  drew  nigh,  and  the  looked-for  guests  Logan 
to  assemble,  he  rose  superior  to  the  paternal  situation  in  which 
he  stood,  and  seemed  to  suppress  the  father  in  the  man  ai»3 
citizen.  He  revealed  separately  to  each  of  his  guests  the  iftair 
as  it  now  stood,  upon  which  they  had  heen  summoned  tog  jther, 
then  submitted  the  new  requisition  which  he  made  •  pon  theii 
services,  as  a  friend  and  magistrate  alike.  AVith  one  voicr 
they  proclaimed  themselves  ready  to  go  forth  against  the  com 
mon  enemy,  and  with  difficulty  were  restrained  from  precipita 
ting  the  assault;  changing  the  hour  to  midnight  from  the  dawn 
This  rashness  was  fortunately  overruled  —  though  it  could 
scarcely  have  been  thought  rashness,  if  all  the  mon  had  pos 
sessed  an  equal  kncvrledge  with  Colonel  Grafton,  of  the  place 
iii  which  the  outlaws  harbored.  To  quiet  the  more  impetuous 
among  his  guests,  ho  led  them  out  after  dark,  in  obedience  to 
our  previous  resolve,  to  take  the  two  fellows  at  "  the  Trap- 
Hole/'  and,  I  may  say,  5n  brief,  that  wo  succeeded  to  a  tittle 
in  making  them  prisoners  just  .<*  we  had  arranged  it.  Sur 
prise  was  nc\er  move  complete  We  roped  th?m  to  saplings 
in  a  thicket  of  the  woods,  filled  tneii1  mouths  wirh  green  moss, 
and  the  arms  rf  which  we  despoiled  them,  enabled  UP  '\e  bot 
ter  '  -  meet  thoir  comrades 


384  RICHARD   HURDIS. 


CHAPTER  LII. 

ANOTHER    VICTIM. 

44  Had  we  never  loved  so  kindly, 

Had  we  never  loved  so  blindly  — 

Never  met  or  never  parted, 

We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted ! "  —BURNS. 

WE  completed  our  preparations  at  an  early  hour,  and  by  midnight 
were  ready  to  depart  on  our  work  of  peril.  We  had  so  arranged  it 
as  not  to  go  forth  en  masse;  it  was  feared  that,  if  seen,  our  array 
would  occasion  apprehension,  and  possibly  lead  to  a  detection  and 
defeat  of  all  our  plans.  By  twos  and  threes,  therefore,  our  men  set 
forth,  at  different  periods,  with  the  understanding  that,  taking  dif 
ferent  routes,  we  were  all  to  rendezvous  at  the  "Day-Blind,"  by  one 
o'clock,  or  two.  at  farthest.  The  onslaught  we  proposed  to  make  with 
the  first  blush  of  the  morning.  I  remained,  with  two  others,  behind 
with  Colonel  Graf  ton,  until  the  designated  hour  drew  nigh  ;  then, 
\vith  emotions  exciting  in  the  last  degree,  and  greatly  conflicting  with 
each  other,  I  mounted  my  steed,  and  we  took  our  departure  for  the 
place  agreed  on. 

Let  us  now  return,  for  a  few  moments,  to  the  unhappy  maiden, 
whose  bridal-night  was  so  suddenly  changed  to  gloom  from  festivity. 
We  were  permitted  to  see  nothing  of  her  sorrows.  When  first 
stricken  by  the  intelligence  which  her  father  gave  of  her  felon-lover, 
her  grief  had  shown  itself  in  a  single,  sudden  shriek,  a  fainting-fit, 
and,  for  some  time  after,  a  complete  prost ration  of  all  her  physical 
powers.  Restorative  medicines  were  given  her,  and  it  was  only  when 
she  was  believed  to  be  in  a  dee))  and  refreshing:  slumber,  that  her 
mother  retired  to  her  own  apartment. 

But  the  maiden  did  not  sleep.  The  medicines  had  failed  to 
work  for  her  that  oblivion,  thai  momentary  blindness  and  for- 


ANOTHER   VICTIM,  385 

getfulness,  which  they  were  charitably  intended  to  occasion.  The 
desire  to  relieve  her  mother's  anxiety,  which  she  witnessed  led  her 
to  an  undoubted  effort  at  composure,  and  she  subdued  her  sorrows 
so  far  as  to  put  on  the  aspect  of  a  quiet,  apathetic  condition, 
which  she  was  very  far  from  enjoying.  She  seemed  to  sleep,  and, 
as  the  hour  was  late,  her  mother,  availing  herself  of  the  oppor 
tunity,  retired  for  the  night,  leaving  her  daughter  in  charge  of  a 
favorite  nurse,  who  remained  in  the  apartment. 

Julia  who  was  no  less  watchful  than  suffering,  soon  discov 
ered  that  her  companion  slept,  She  rose  gently,  and  hurried 
on  her  clothes.  Her  very  sorrows  strengthened  her  for  an  effort 
totally  inconsistent  with  her  prostration  but  a  little  while  before  ; 
and  the  strange  and  perilous  circumstances  in  which  Eberly 
stood  prompted  her  to  a  degree  of  artfulness  which  was  alike 
foreign  to  her  nature  and  education.  The  seeming  necessity  of 
the  case  could  alone  furnish  its  excuse.  She  1;  iieved  that  the 
life  of  the  }Touth  was  jeoparded  by  his  position.  In  the  first 
feeling  of  auger,  her  father  had  declared  him  to  be  liable  to 
the  last  punishments  of  the  law,  and,  in  the  sail1'-  breath,  avowed 
himself,  as  an  honest  magistrate,  bound  to  inflict  them.  She  was 
resolved,  if  possible,  to  defeat  this  resolution,  and  to  save  the 
unhappy  youth,  whom,  if  she  might  no  longer  look  upon  with 
respect,  she,  at  least,  was  still  compelled  to  love.  Without  im 
pugning  the  judgment  of  her  father,  she  felt  the  thought  to  be 
unendurable  which  told  her  momently  of  the  extreme  peril  of 
the  criminal  ;  and,  under  its  impulse,  she  was  nerved  to  a  de 
gree  of  boldness  and  strength  quite  unlike  the  submissive  gen 
tleness  which  usually  formed  the  most  conspicuous  feature  in 
her  character  and  deportment. 

We  have  already  seen  that  it  was  no  part  of  Grafton's  desire, 
whatever  might  be  the  obnoxiousness  of  Eberly  to  the  laws,  to 
bring  him  to  trial.  Though  evidently  connected  with  the  ban 
ditti  that  infested  the  country,  and,  strictly  speaking,  liable  to 
all  the  consequences  of  their  crimes,  yet  the  evidence  had  been 
conclusive  to  Graf  ton  that  the  unhappy  youth  had  shared  in 
none  of  their  performances.  Could  he  have  proved  specifically 
any  one  offence  against  him,  Grafton  must  have  brought  him  to 
punishment,  and  would  have  done  so,  though  his  heart  writhed 
at  its  own  resolution  ;  but  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  relief,  if  not 

17 


386  lilv'-IlAUD    HUIIDIS. 

of  pleasure,  that  lie  found  no  such  evidence,  and  lelt  himself 
morally  if  not  legally  freed  from  the  necessity  of  prosecution, 
A'hich  such  a  knowledge  must  have  brought  with  it.  To  secure 
Eberly  until  his  late  associates  were  dispersed  or  destroyed 
»vas  the  simple  object  of  his  detention;  for,  to  speak  frankly,  •"• 
was  G  raft  on 's  fear  that,  if  suffered  to  go  forth,  he  might  still  be 
carried  back,  by  the  desperate  force  of  circumstances,  to  the 
unholy  connections  from  which  he  had  voluntarily  withdrawn 
himself.  lie  had  no  confidence  in  the  avowed  resolutions  of 
the  youth,  and  deemed  it  not  improbable  that,  as  his  repent 
ance  seemed  originally  to  have  been  the  result  of  his  attach 
ment  to  Julia,  the  legitimate  consequence  of  her  rejection  would 
be  to  throw  him  back  upon  his  old  principles  and  associates. 
But  this  doubt  did  injustice  to  the  youth.  The  evil  aspects  of 
crime  had  disgusted  him  enough,  even  if  the  loveliness  of  vir 
tue  had  failed  to  persuade  him.  llis  resolution  was  fixed  ;  and, 
Considering  his  moral  claims  alone,  without  reference  to  the 
exactions  of  society,  it  may  be  safely  said  that  never  was  Eb- 
•«rly  more  worthy  of  the  love  of  Julia  Grafton  than  at  the  ver/ 
moment  when  it  was  lost  to  him  for  ever. 

"With  cautious  hands  she  undid  the  fastening  of  her  apart- 
Ment,  and,  trembling  at  every  step,  but  still  resolute,  she  as 
cended  the  stairs  which  led  up  to  the  garret-chambers.  In  one 
of  these  Eberly  was  confined.  From  this  —  as  there  was  but  a 
*'«igle  window,  to  leap  from  which  would  have  been  certain 

w.ath  —  there  was  no  escape,  save  by  the  door,  and  this  was 
securely  fastened  on  the  outside,  and  the  key  in  the  possessic:) 
of  a  faithful  negro,  to  whom  Colonel  Grafton  had  given  particu 
lar  instructions  for  the  safe-keeping  of  the  prisoner.  But  \Ke 
guardian  slept  on  his  post,  and  it  was  not  difficult  for  Julv*  to 
detach  the  key  from  where  it  hung,  upon  the  fore-finger  of  hip 
outstretched  hand:  this  she  did  without  disturbing  him  in  the 
slightest  degree.  In  another  moment  she  unclosed  the  door, 
and  fearlessly  entered  the  chamber. 

"  Julia  !"  was  the  exclamation  of  the  prisoner,  as,  with  a  fresh 
sentiment  of  joy  and  love,  he  beheld  her  standing  before  him. 
"  Julia,  dear  Julia,  do  1  indeed  behold  you?  You  have  not 
ther.  forgotten  —  you  do  not  then  scorn  the  wretch  who  is  au 

*itcast  from  all  beside  ?" 


ANOTHER   VICTIM.  387 

He  approached  her.  Her  finger  waved  him  back,  while  she 
replied,  in  melancholy  accents  :  — 

"Clifton,  you  must  fly!  You  are  in  danger  —  your  very  life 
is  endangered,  if  you  linger  here." 

"  My  life?"  cried  the  criminal,  in  tones  of  melancholy  de 
spair, — "  my  life?  Let  them  take  it!  If  I  must  leave  you, 
Julia,  I  care  not  to  live.  Go  to  your  father  —  let  him  bring 
the  executioner  —  you  will  see  that  I  will  not  shrink  from  the 
defiling  halter  and  the  cruel  death — nay,  that  I  will  smile  at 
their  approach,  when  I  am  once  assured  that  I  can  not  live  for 
you." 

"And  you  cannot!"  said  the  maiden,  in  sad  but  fum  accents. 
"You  must  forget  that  thought,  Clifton  —  that  wish  —  if,  indeed, 
it  be  your  wish.  You  must  forget  me,  as  it  shall  now  be  the 
chief  task  of  my  life  to  forget  you." 

"And  can  you,  Julia — can  you  forget  me,  after  those  hours 
of  joy  —  those  de.u'  walks,  and  the  sweet  delights  of  so  many 
precious  and  never-to-be-forgotten  meetings?  Can  you  forget 
them,  Julia?  Nay,  can  you  desire  to  forget  them?  If  you 
can  —  if  such  be,  indeed,  your  desire  —  then  death  shall  be 
doubly  welcome  —  death  in  any  form.  But  I  can  not  believe 
it,  Julia  —  I  will  not.  I  remember — but  no!  I  will  not  remind 
you  —  I  will  i»ot  seek  to  remind  you,  when  you  declare  your 
desire  to  forget.  Why  have  you  sought  me  here,  Julia?  Know 
you  not  what  I  am?  have  you  not  bc-en  told  what  the  world 
calls  me  —  what  the  malice  of  my  cruel  fortune  has  compelled 
me  to  become?  Have  you  not  heard ?  jr»ist  I  tell  you  that  I 
am  — 

"Hush!"  she  exclaimed,  in  faltering  and  expostulating  ac 
cents;  "say  it  not,  Clifton  —  say  it  not.  If,  indeed,  it  be  true, 
as  they  told  me  — 

"They  have  told  you,  then,  Julia?  your  father  has  told  you? 
and,  oh,  joy  of  my  heart!  you  ask  of  me  if  what  they  have  said 
to  jrou  can  be  true.  You  doubt  —  you  can  not  believe  it  of  me. 
You  shall  not  believe  it  — 

"Then  it  is  not  true,  Clifton?"  cried  the  maiden  eagerly,  ad 
vancing  as  she  spoke,  while  the  tear  which  glistened  in  her 
eyes  took  from  her  whole  features  the  glow  of  that  joy  and 
hope  which  had  sprung  up  so  suddenly  in  her  bosom.  "They 


RICHARD    HURDI8. 

have  slandered  you  when  they  pronounced  you  -he  associat* 
of  these  outlaws;  it  is  a  wanton,  a  malicious  faL-ohood,  wh:ch 
you  can  easily  disprove?  I  knew  it — I  thought  it  from  the 
*iist.  Clifton ;  and  yet,  when  my  father  told  me,  and  told  crie 
vi'.h  such  assurances,  with  such  solemn  looks  and  words,  and 
ipo.i  such  evidence  —  ah  !  Edward,  forgive  me,  \\heit  I  confess 
'•)  you  I  could  not  doubt  what  I  yet  dreaded  and  trembled  tr 
/elieve.  But  you  deny  it,  Kdward  ;  y:>u  will  prove  it  to  my 
Miner's  conviction  to  he  false;  you  will  cleanse  yourself  fron; 
ihis  polluting  stigma,  and  I  feel,  1  hope,  we  filial]:  he  happy  yet 
My  father — '' 

The  chilling  accents  of  her  lover's  voice  recalled  her  from  (lie 
hopeful  dream  which  her  young  heart  began  to  fancy.  He 
dashed  the  goblet  of  delight  from  the  parting  lips  which  wero 
just  about  to  quaff  from  its  golden  circle. 

"Alas,  Julia,  it  is  only  too  true!  your  father  has  told  you 
but  the  truth.  Bitter  is  t.he  necessity  that  makes  me  say  so 
much  ;  but,  1  will  not  deceive  vou  ;  indeed  :<f  he  told  you  ail 
he  must  have  told  you  tha  '  came  of  my  own  free  will  tn  un 
deceive  him.  My  own  lips  pronounced  to  him  my  own  fault, 
and,  humbling  as  its  consciousness  is  to  me,  1  must  decla/e  that, 
in  avowing  my  connection  with  these  wretched  associates,  1 
have  avowed  the  extent  of  my  errors,  though  not  of  my  suffer 
ings.  Thank  God  !  1  have  taken  part  in  none  of  their  crimes; 
1  have  shared  in  none  of  their  spoils ;  my  hands  are  free  from 
any  stain  save  that  which  they  have  received  from  grasping 
theirs  in  fellowship.  This,  I  well  know,  is  a  stain  too  much, 
and  the  contact  of  my  hands  would  only  defile  the  purity  of 
yours.  Yet,  could  I  teli  you  the  story  of  wo  and  suffering  which 
drove  me  to  this  miseiible  extien-ity,  you  would  pity  me,  Julia, 
if  you  could  not  altogether  forgive.  But  wherefore  should  I 
tell  you  this  ?" 

"  Wherefore  !"  w  is  the  moaning  exclamation  of  the  maiden, 
as  the  youth  briefly  paused  in  his  speech,  "wherefore?  —  it 
avails  us  nothing!  Yet, I  will  believe  you,  Clifton  ;  I  must  be 
lieve  that  you  have  been  driven  to  this  dreadful  communion,  if 
I  would  not  sink  under  the  shame  of  my  own  consciousness.  I 
believe  you,  Edward  —  I  believe  you,  and  I  pity  you  —  from 
uiy  very  soul  1  pity  you.  T^ut  I  can  no  more :  let  UP  jnrt  u  '«• 


ANOTHER   VICTIM.  c 

r,eave  me  —  fly,  while  there  is  yet  time  !     My  father  re*  irns  i 
the  morning,  and  I  fear  that  his  former  regard  for  you  will  no 
he  sufficient  to  save  you  from  the  punishment  whittli  he  thinks 
due  to  your  offences.     Indeed,  he  will  even  be  more  strict  and 
severe  because  of  the  imposition  which  he  thinks  you  have  prac 
tised  upon  him  —  " 

"And  upon  you,  Julia  :  you  say  nothing  of  that." 

"Nothing!  because  it  should  weigh  nothing  with  me  at  such 
a  moment.  I  feel  not  the  scorn  which  you  have  put  upon  me, 
Edward,  in  the  loss  which  follows  it." 

"Blessed,  beloved  spirit!  and  I,  too,  must  feel  the  loss;  and 
such  a  loss  !  Oh,  blind,  base  fool  that  I  was,  to  suffer  the  pang 
and  the  apprehension  of  a  moment  to  baffle  the  hopes  and  the 
happiness  of  a  life  1  Ah,  Julia,  how  can  I  fly?  how  can  1  leave 
you,  knowing  what  you  aie,  and  not  forgetting  that  you  have 
loved  me,  worthless  as  I  am  ?" 

"No  more  of  this,  Edward,"  replied  the  maiden,  quirkly 
withdrawing  her  hand  fr«m  the  grasp  which  his  ovfti  had  pas 
sionately  taken  upon  it  —  "no  more  of  this;  Ic  Trill  be  your 
policy,  as  it  shall  be  my  duty,  to  forget  all  this.  >Ye  must  strive 
to  forget  —  we  must  forget  each  other.  It  will  be  my  first  prayer 
always  to  be  able  to  forget  «\rhat  it  must  only  be  my  constant 
shame  and  son<nw  to  remember." 

"And  why  your  sliame  and  sorrow,  Julia?  I  toll  you  that, 
V-  connecting  myself  most  unhappily  with  these  'wretched  peo- 
•*!'*,  1  nave  abstained  from  their  offences.  If  they  have  robbed 
*Ke  traveller,  I  have  taken  none  of  their  spoils  ;  if  they  have 
in^rdered  their  victim,  his  blood  is  not  upon  my  hands.  1  have 
been  their  victim,  indeed,  rather  than  their  ally.  They  forced 
me  —  a  dire  necessity  forced  me  —  into  their  communion,  in 
which  I  have  been  a  witness  rather  than  a  partaker." 

"Alas!  Edward,  I  am  afraid  the  difference  is  but  too  slight 
to  be  made  use  of  in  your  defence.  Did  you  witness  to  con 
demn  and  disapprove  ?  did  you  seek  to  prevent  or  repair  ?  did 
you  stay  the  uplifted  hand  which  struck  down  the  traveller  ? 
did  you  place  yourself  on  his  side  to  sustain  and  help  him  in 
the  moment  of  his  deadly  and  last  peril  ?  My  father  would  havi 
taken  this  part—  his  lessons  have  always  taught  me  that  such 

as  the  part  always  of  the  brave  and  honorable  gentleman.    If 


w 


,'U  KICIIARD    IIURDTS. 

you   have   taken   tliis   part,  Edward  ;    if  you   can   prove  ti.-  Vim 
lliat  you  liave  taken  tliis  part — 

She  paused.  The  criminal  shrunk  from  her  u  bile  she  spoke, 
*ind  covered  hij  face  with  his  hands,  while  lie  murmured  hoarse 
ly,  and  in  Litter,  broken  accents  — 

"  1  have  not.  1  have  seen  him  robbed  of  his  little  wealth 
i  have  seen  him  stricken  down  by  the  unexpected  blow;  and  1 
have  not  lifted  voice  or  weapon  in  his  defence.  Basely  have  I 
witnessed  the  deeds  of  baseness,  and  fittingly  base  should  be 
my  punishment  And  yet,  Julia,  I  could  say  that — will  you 
liear  me  ?"  he  demanded,  seeing  that  she  turned  away. 

44  Speak,  speak,"  she  murmured  faintly. 

44  Yes,  Julia,  I  have  that  to  say  which  would  go  far  to  make 
you  forget  and  forgive  my  weakness  —  my  crime." 

44 Alas!  Edward,  I  fear  not.     There  is  nothing  —  " 

''Nothing!  nay,  Julia,  you  care  not  to  hear  my  defence! 
you  are  indifferent  whether  I  live  or  die  —  whether  they  prove 
me  guilty  or  innocent  of  crime !"  said  he,  with  a  bitter  manner 
of  reproach.  She  answered  with  a  heart-touching  meekness: 

"And  yet  I  come  even  now  to  save  your  life.  1  throw  aside 
the  fears  and  delicacy  of  my  sex  —  I  seek  you  at  midnight. 
Edward —  I  seek  you  but  to  save.  Does  this  argue  indiffer 
ence  ?" 

44  To  save  my  life  !  Oh,  Julia,  bethink  you  for  a  moment 
what  a  precious  boon  this  is  to  one  of  whom  you  rob  everything 
which  made  life  dear,  at  the  very  moment  when  you  profess  to 
save  it.  This  is  a  mockery  —  a  sad,  a  cruel  mockery!  Let 
them  take  the  life,  if  they  will :  you  will  see  how  that  boon  is 
valued  by  me,  to  which  you  offer  to  prove  that  you  are  not  in 
different.  You  will  see  how  readily  1  can  durrender  the  life 
which  the  withdrawal  of  your  love  has  beggared  —  which  the 
denial  of  your  esteem  has  embittered  for  over  !" 

44 All,  Edward,  speak  not  thus!"  Wherefore  would  you  force 
me  to  say  that  my  love  is  not  to  be  denied  »n-r  my  esteem  with- 
heLl,  b}  a  will,  or  in  an  instant  ?" 

"And  you  do  still  love  —  you  wilt  promise,  .Julia,  to  esteem 
ine  yet — " 

44  No  !  I  will  promise  nothing,  Edward  —  nothing.  1  will 
strive  only  to  forget  you;  and  though  J  promise  nut  myself  tr 


ANOTHER    VICTIM. 

be  successful  in  the  effort,  duty  requires  that  it  should  yet  be 
made.  Go,  no\\ .  Let  us  part,  and  for  ever  !  '  My  fathe.i  and 
hip  guests  are  all  gone ;  there  is  none  to  interrupt  you  in  your 
flight.  Fly  —  fly  far,  Edward,  I  pray  you.  Let  us  not  meet 
again,  since  nothing  but  pain  could  come  from  such  a  meeting." 

"  But,  Julia,  will  you  not  promise  me  that  if  I  can  acquit  my 
self  worthily,  you  will  once  more  receive  me  ?" 

"  I  can  not.  My  father's  will  must  determine  mine,  Edward  , 
since  it  is  to  his  judgment  only  that  I  can  refer,  to  determiiiii 
what  is  worthy  in  the  sight  of  men  and  what  is  not.  "Were  \ 
to  yield  to  my  affections  this  decision,  I  should,  perhaps,  care 
nothing  for  your  offences ;  I  should  deem  you  no  offender ;  and 
Love  would  blindly  worship  at  an  altar  from  which  Truth  would 
turn  away  in  sorrow  and  reproach.  Urge  me  i:ct  further,  Ed 
ward,  on  this  painful  subject.  Solemnly  I  declare  to  you,  that, 
under  no  circumstances  henceforward,  can  I  know  you,  unless  by 
permission  of  my  father." 

Eberly  strode  away,  with  a  spasmodic  effort,  to  another  part 
of  the  chamber.     His  emotions  left  him  speechless  for  a  while. 
When  he  returned  to  her,  his  articulation  was  still  imperfect 
and  it  was  only  by  great  resolution  that  he  made  himself  intel 
ligible  at  last :  — 

"  I  will  vex  you  no  more.  I  will  be  to  you,  Julia,  nothing  — 
even  as  you  wish.  I  will  leave  you;  and  when  next  you  hear 
of  me,  you  will  weep,  bitterly  weep  ;  not,  perhaps,  that  you  have 
sent  me  from  you  in  scorn,  but  that  I  was  not  wholly  worthy  of 
that  love  which  you  were  once  hnppy  to  bestow  upon  me." 

He  passed  her  as  he  spoke  these  words,  and,  before  she  could 
fix  any  one  of  the  flitting  and  confused  fancies  in  her  mind,  he 
had  left  the  apartment,  and  her  ear  could  readily  distinguish  his 
footsteps,  as,  without  any  of  the  precautions  of  the  fugitive, 
trembling  for  his  life,  he  deliberately  descended  th»-  rtairs.  She 
grasped  the  post  of  the  door,  and  hung  on  it  for  support.  Her 
strength,  which  had  sustained  her  throughout  the  interview,  was 
about  to  leave  her.  When  she  ceased  to  hear  his  retreating 
steps,  she  recovered  herself  sufficiently  to  reach  her  chamber  ; 
where,  after  locking  carefully  her  door,  she  threw  herself,  almost 
without  life,  upon  her  bed,  and  gave  vent  to  those  emotions 
which  now,  from  long  restraint,  like  the  accumulated  torrert* 


392  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

and  overwhelm  the  region  which  they  were  meant  to  invigorate  and 
refresh.  One  bitter  sentence  of  hopelessness  alone  escaped  her  lips  ; 
and  the  unsyllabled  moaning  which  followed  it  attested  the  depth  of 
these  sorrows  which  she  had  so  long  and  nobly  kept  in  check  :  — 

"  He  leaves  me  —  I  have  secu  him  for  the  last  time  —  I  have  heard 
his  departing  footsteps  —  departing  for  ever!  Hark!  it  is  the  tread 
of  a  horse.  It  is  his.  He  flies  —  he  is  safe  from  harm.  He  will  be 
free,  he  will  be  happy,  and  I  —  O  my  father  —  I  am  desolate  ! " 


CONCLUSION. 


CHAPTER    LIII. 

CONCLUSION. 

" If  thou  couldst  redeem  me 

With  anything  but  death,  I  think  I  should 
Consent  to  live."— Tlie  Traitor. 

MEANWHILE,  we  sped  toward  our  place  of  rendezvous.  We 
reached  it,  as  we  had  calculated,  in  sufficient  season.  The  whole 
party  was  assembled  at  the  "Blind,"  according  to  arrangement, 
and  within  the  limited  hour;  and  for  a  brief  period  after  our 
reunion,  nothing  was  to  be  heard  but  the  hum  of  preparation 
for  the  anticipated  strife.  Our  weapons,  as  before  stated,  were 
of  a  motley  description.  But  they  were  all  effective;  at  least  we 
resolved  that  they  should  be  made  so.  Leaving  as  little  to  acci 
dent  as  possible,  we  reloaded  and  rcprimcd  our  firearms,  put  in 
new  flints,  where  we  could  do  so,  and  girded  ourselves  up  for  the 
contest  with  the  cool  consideratcness  of  men  who  arc  not  disposed  to 
shrink  back  from  the  good  work  to  which  they  have  so  far  put  their 
hands.  Encouraged  by  the  feeling  and  energy  of  Colonel  Grafton, 
who  was  very  much  beloved  among  them,  there  was  not  one  of  the 
party  who  did  not  throw  as  much  personal  interest  into  the  motives 
for  his  valor  as  entered  either  into  Grafton's  bosom  or  mine. 

When  we  were  all  ready,  we  divided  ourselves  into  three 
bodies,  providing  thus  an  assailing  force  for  the  three  known 
outlets  of  the  outlaws'  retreat.  One  of  these  bodies  was  led  by 
Grafton,  and,  under  his  lead,  and  by  his  side,  I  rode.  To  two 
sturdy  farmers  of  the  neighborhood,  who  were  supposed  to  be 
more  conversant  with  the  place  than  the  rest,  the  other  divis 
ions  were  given;  and  it  was  arranged  that  our  attack  upon  the 
three  designated  points  sliorH  N'  : ">  r'T.rV  .^ivnultancous  as 
possible.  The  darknc&i  ui  ihc  i...^  —  the  difficulty  of  deter- 

17* 


y4  HICHARD    UITRDI8. 

mining  and  equalizing  the  several  distances  —  the  necessity  oi 
proceeding  slowly  and  beedfully.  in  order  to  avoid  giving  a^'.r 
—  and  other  considerations  and  difficulties  of  like  nature  an*! 
equal  moment — rendered  our  advance  tedious  and  protracted; 
and,  though  we  had  not  more  than  two  miles  to  cover  after  SP.P 
arating  at  the  "  Blind,"  yet  the  gray  streaks  of  the  early  dawu 
were  beginning  to  vein  the  hazy  summits  in  the  east  before  we 
reached  the  point  of  entrance  which  had  been  assigned  us. 

The  morning  was  cold  and  cloudy,  and  through  the  misty 
lir  sounds  were  borne  rapidly  and  far.  We  were  forced  to  con 
tinue  our  caution  as  we  proceeded.  When  we  reached  the  val 
ley,  the  porch,  as  it  were,  to  the  home  among  the  hills  where 
the  robbers  had  found  their  refuge,  we  came  to  a  dead  halt. 
There  were  slight  noises  from  within  the  enclosure  which  an 
noyed  us,  and  we  paused  to  listen.  They  were  only  moment 
ary,  however,  and  we  rode  slowly  forward,  until  the  greater 
number  of  our  little  party  were  fairly  between  the  two  hills. 
In  my  anxiety,  I  had  advanced  a  horse's  length  beyond  Colonel 
Qrafton,  by  whose  side  I  had  before  ridden.  We  were  just  about 
to  emerge  from  the  passage  into  the  area,  when  the  indistinct 
figure  of  a  man  started  up,  as  it  were,  from  beneath  the  very 
hoofs  of  my  horse.  I  had  nearly  ridden  over  him,  for  the  day 
was  yet  too  imperfect  to  enable  us  to  distinguish  between  ob 
jects  not  in  motion.  lie  had  been  asleep,  and  was,  most  prob 
ably,  a  sentinel.  As  he  ran,  he  screamed  at  the  loudest  pitch 
of  his  voice ;  the  probability  is,  that  in  his  surprise  he  had  left 
his  weapon  where  he  had  lain,  and  had  no  other  means  of 
alarming  his  comrades,  and  saving  them  from  the  consequencea 
of  his  neglectful  watch.  In  the  midst  of  his  clamors,  I  silenced 
him.  I  shot  him  through  the  back  as  he  ran,  not  five  steps  in 
front  of  my  horse,  seeking  to  ascend  the  hill  to  the  right  of  us. 
He  tumbled  forward,  and  lay  writhing  before  our  path,  but 
without  a  word  or  moan.  At  this  moment,  the  thought  pos 
sessed  me,  that  it  was  John  Hurdis  whom  I  had  shot.  I  shiv 
ered  involuntarily  with  the  conviction,  and  in  my  mind  I  felt  a 
busy  voice  of  reproach,  that  reminded  me  of  our  poor  mother. 
I  strov-e  to  sustain  myself,  by  referring  to  his  baseness,  and  to 
his  deserts,  yet  I  felt  sick  at  heart  the  while.  I  had  the  stran- 
est  curiosity  to  look  into  the  face  of  the  victim,  but  for  world f 


CONCLUSION.  6 

1  vr«K'ld  not  thei  have  done  so.  It  was  proposed  tliat  we  should 
examine  the  body  by  one  of  the  men  behind  me.  It  was  a  voice 
of  desperation  with  which  I  shouted  in  reply  : — 

»No — no  examination  !     We  have  no  time  for  that !" 

;<True!"  said  Grafton,  taking  up  the  words.  "We  must 
think  of  living,  not  dead  enemies.  This  shot  will  put  the  gang 
in  irotion.  We  must  rush  on  them  at  on~e,  if  we  hope  to  do 
anything,  and  the  sooner  we  go  forward  the  better." 

He  gave  the  \\o\  \  at  this  moment,  which  I  seconded  with  a 
fierce  shout,  which  was  half-intended  to  overcome  and  scare 
away  my  own  obtrusive  fancies. 

"Better,"  I  said  to  myself — "better  that  I  should  believe 
John  Hurdis  to  be  already  slain,  than  that  I  snould  think  the 
duty  yet  to  be  done.  lie  must  perish,  and  I  feel  that  it  will  be 
an  easier  deed  to  slay  him  while  he  is  unknown,  regarding  him 
merely  as  one  of  the  common  enemy." 

These  self-communings —  indeed,  the  whole  events  which 
had  occasioned  them  —  were  all  the  work  of  a  moment.  I  ha'1 
fired  the  pistol  under  the  impulse  which  seemed  to  follow  the 
movement  of  the  victim,  as  closely  as  if  it  had  been  a  certain 
consequence  of  it.  In  another  instant  we  rushed  headlong  into 
the  valley,  just  as  sounds  of  fright  and  confusion  reached  us  from 
one  of  the  opposite  entrances,  which  had  been  assigned  the  other 
partieL'.  There  was  now  no  time  for  unnecessary  reflections  — 
the  moment  for  thought  and  hesitation  had  gone  by,  and  the 
blood  was  boiling  and  bounding  in  my  veins,  with  all  the  ar 
dor  and  enthusiasm  of  boyhood.  Wild  cries  of  apprehension 
and  encouragement  reached  us  from  various  quarters,  and  we 
could  see  sudden  forms  rushing  out  of  the  bushes,  and  from  be 
tween  the  hollows  where  they  had  slept ;  and  with  the  sight  of 
them,  our  men  dashed  off  in  various  directions,  and  divided  in 
pursuit.  Colonel  Grafton  and  myself  advanced  in  like  manner 
toward  a  group  consisting  of  three  persons,  who  seemed  disposed 
to  seek,  rather  than  fly,  from  us.  A  few  bounds  brought  us  near 
enough  to  discover  in  one  of  these,  the  person  of  Matthew 
Webber. 

The  two  deadly  enemies  were  now  within  a  few  steps  of  eaci 
other;  ana,  resolving  to  spare  Colour!  Grafton  the  encounte* 
w  ith  a  man  who  had  professed  such  ittcr  maiice  toward  him 


396  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

and  such  a  blood-thirsty  and  unrelenting  hate,  I  put  spurs  to  my 
horse,  and,  with  earnest  efforts,  endeavored  to  put  myself  between 
them ;  but  my  object  was  defeated,  and  I  was  soon  taught  to 
know  that  I  required  all  my  address  to  manage  my  own  particular 
opponent. 

This  was  the  man  whom  we  have  before  seen  as  the  emissary 
of  the  brotherhood,  at  the  habitation  of  Pickett,  and,  subsequently, 
when  I  left  the  encampment,  ostensibly  as  the  spy  upon 
Ebcrly.  This  fellow  seemed  to  understand  my  object  for  he 
put  himself  directly  in  my  way,  and,  when  not  three  steps  dis 
tant,  discharged  his  pistol  at  my  head.  How  he  came  to  miss 
me,  I  know  not.  It  would  appear  impossible  that  a  man,  re 
solved  and  deliberate  as  he  certainly  showed  himself  then  and 
elsewhere  to  be,  should  have  failed  to  shoot  me  at-  so  small  a 
distance.  But  he  did ;  and,  without  troubling  myself  at  that 
moment  to  demand  how  or  why,  I  was  resolved  not  to  miss  him. 
I  did  not. 

But  my  bullet,  though  more  direct  than  his,  was  not  fatal.  I 
hit  him  in  the  shoulder  of  the  right  arm,  from  the  hand  of  which 
lie  dropped  the  knife  which  he  had  taken  from  his  bosom,  the 
moment  after  firing  his  pistol.  My  horse  was  upon  him  in  an 
other  instant ;  but,  as  if  insensible  to  his  wound,  he  grasped  the 
bridle  with  his  remaining  hand,  and,  by  extending  his  arm  to  its 
utmost  stretch,  he  baffled  me,  for  a  brief  space,  in  the  effort 
which  I  was  making  to  take  a  second  shot.  It  was  but  a  mo 
ment  only,  however,  that  he  did  so.  I  suffered  him  to  turn  the 
head  of  the  horse,  and  deliberately  took  a  second  pistol  from  my 
bosom. 

He  sunk  under  the  breast  of  the  animal  as  he  beheld  it,  still 
grasping  him  by  the  bridle,  by  swinging  from  which  he  was  en- 
abled  to  avoid  the  tramplings  of  his  feet.  But  I  was  not  to  be 
defeated.  I  threw  myself  from  the  animal,  and  shot  the  outlaw 
dead,  before  he  could  extricate  himself  from  the  position  into  which 
he  had  thrown  himself. 

This  affair  took  less  time  to  act  than  I  now  employ  to  narrate 
it.  Meanwhile,  the  strife  between  Colonel  Grafton  and  Web 
ber  had  proceeded  to  a  fatal  issue.  I  had  beheld  its  progress 
with  painful  apprehensions,  beholding  the  danger  of  the  noble 
gentleman,  without  the  ability  to  serve  or  succor  him.  On 


CONCLUSION.  397 

their  first  encounter,  the  deliberate  ruffian  calmly  awaited  the  bold 
assault  of  his  foe,  and,  perhaps,  feeling  some  doubt  of  his  weapon 
in  aiming  at  the  smaller  object,  or,  resolved  to  make  sure  of  him, 
though  slow,  he  directed  his  pistol  muzzle  at  the  advancing  steed, 
and  put  the  bullet  into  his  breast.  The  animal  tumbled  forward, 
and  Webber,  nimbly  leaping  to  one  side,  avoided  his  crushing  car 
cass,  which  fell  over  upon  the  very  spot  where  the  outlaw  had  taken 
his  station. 

In  the  fall  of  the  beast,  as  Webl>er  had  anticipated,  Grafton 
became  entangled.  One  of  his  legs  was  fastened  under  the  animal, 
and  he  lay  prostrate  and  immovable  for  an  instant,  from  the 
stunning  effect  of  the  fall."  AVith  a  grim  smile  of  triumph,  Web 
ber  approached  him,  and  when  not  three  paces  distant  from  his 
enemy,  drew  his  pistol,  but  before  he  could  fix  the  sight  upon 
him,  a  fierce  wild  scream  rang  through  the  area,  and  in  the 
next  instant,  when  nothing  beside  could  have  saved  Grafton. 
and  when  looking  fearlessly  at  his  advancing  enemy,  he  momently 
expected  the  death  which  he  felt  himself  unable  to  avoid, 
he  beheld,  with  no  less  satisfaction  and  surprise,  the  figure  of 
the  doubly  fugitive  Clifton  bounding  between  them,  to  arrest 
the  threatened  shot.  He  came  too  late  for  this,  yet  he  baffled  the 
vengeance  of  the  murderer.  The  bullet  took  effect  in  his  own 
bosom,  and  he  fell  down  between  Grafton  and  Webber,  expiating 
his  errors  and  offenses,  whatever  may  have  been  their  nature  and 
extent,  by  freely  yielding  up  his  life  to  save  that  of  one,  who 
just  before,  as  he  imagined  to  the  last,  had  sat  in  inflexible  and 
hostile  judgment  upon  his  own.  A  faint  smile  illuminated  his  coun 
tenance  a  moment  before  his  death,  and  he  seemed  desirous  to 
turn  his  eyes  where  Graf  ten  lay,  but  to  this  task  he  was  unequal. 
Once  or  twice  he  made  an  effort  at  speech,  but  his  voice  sunk  away 
into  a  gurgling  sound,  and,  at  length,  terminated  in  the  choking 
rattle  of  death. 

Webber,  while  yet  the  breath  fluttered  upon  the  lips  of  his 
victim,  strode  forward,  with  one  foot  upon  his  body,  to  repeat  the 
assault  upon  Graftou,  which  had  been  baffled  thus,  but  before  he 
could  do  this,  he  fell  by  an  unseen  hand.  He  was  levelled  to  the 
earth  by  a  stroke  from  the  butt  of  a  rifle  from  behind,  and  despatched, 
in  the  heat  of  the  moment,  by  a  secoad  blow  from  the  hands  of  the 
sturdy  forester  who  wielded  it 


398  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

We  extricated  Grafton  from  a  situation  which  had  been  pro 
ductive  to  him  of  so  much  peril,  and  addressed  ourselves  to  a  pursuit 
of  the  surviving  outlaws,  who  were  scattered  and  flying  on  all 
hands.  In  this  pursuit  it  fell  to  my  lot  to  inflict  death,  without 
recognizing  my  victim  at  the  time,  upon  the  actual  murderer  of 
William  Carrington.  I  saw  a  fellow  skulk  bokiml  a  bush,  and 
shot  him  through  it.  That  was  Pickett.  I  only  knew  it  when,  in 
the  afternoon  of  the  day,  we  encountered  his  wife,  with  countenance 
seemingly  unmoved,  and  wearing  its  general  expression  of  rigid 
gravity,  directing  the  burial  of  her  miserable  husband,  whom  a 
couple  of  negroes  were  preparing  to  deposit  in  a  grave  dug  near  the 
spot  where  he  had  fallen. 

But  our  toils  were  not  ended.  Seven  of  the  outlaws  had  been 
killed  outright,  or  so  fatally  wounded  as  to  die  very  soon  after. 
Two  only  were  made  prisoners;  and  we  had  started  at  least  eight 
or  ten  more.  These  had  taken  flight  in  as  many  different  direc 
tions,  rendering  it  necessary  that  we  should  disperse  ourselves 
in  their  pursuit.  My  blood  had  been  heated  by  the  af 
fray  to  such  a  degree  that  I  ceased  to  think.  To  go  forward,  to 
act,  to  shout,  and  strike,  seemed  now  all  that  I  could  do;  and 
these  were  performances  through  which  my  heart  appeared  to 
carry  me  with  an  ungovernable  sensation  of  delight — a  sensation 
cooled  only  when  I  reflected  that  the  body  of  John  Hurdis  had 
not  yet  been  found  —  that  we  were  in  pursuit  of  the  survivors,  and 
that  I  had  sworn  by  the  grave  of  the  hapless  Emmeline  Walker, 
to  give  no  mercy  to  the  murderers  of  my  friend.  My  oath  was 
there  to  impel  me  forward,  even  should  my  heart  fail  me,  and 
forward  I  went  in  the  bloody  chase;  \ve  urged,  having  a  distant  and 
imperfect  view  of  two  wretches,  both  mounted,  and  fleeing 
backward  upon  the  Big  Warrior.  They  had  gone  through  the 
"Blind,"  and  for  a  mile  farther  I  kept  them  both  in  sight,  At 
length,  one  disappeared,  but  I  gained  upon  the  other.  Every 
moment  brought  the  outlines  of  his  person  more  clearly  to  my 
eye,  and,  at  length,  I  could  no  longer  resist  the  conviction  that 
the  fates  had  brought  me  to  my  victim.  John  Hurdis  was  before 
me. 

What  would  I  not  then  have  given  to  have  found  another  ene 
my.  How  gladly  would  I  then  have  unsworn  myself,  and,  could 
it  be  so,  have  given  up  the  task  of  punishment  to  other  persons. 


CONCLUSION.  399 

There  was  a  sound  of  horsemen  behind  rne,  and  at  one  moment,. 
I  almost  resolved  to  turn  aside  and  leave  to  my  comrades  the 
solemn  duty  which  now  seemed  so  especially  to  devolve  itself 
upon  me.  But  there  was  a  dread  in  my  mind  that  such  a  move 
ment  might  be  misconstrued,  and  the  feeling  be  taken  for  fear, 
which  was  in  strict  truth  the  creature  of  conscience.  The  con 
viction  grew  inevitable  that  the  bloody  duty  of  the  executioner 
was  mine.  The  horse  of  my  brother  stumbled  ;  the  fates  had 
delivered  him  into  my  hands  —  he  lay  on  the  earth  before  me; 
and,  with  a  bursting  heart,  but  a  resolved  spirit,  I  leaped  down 
on  the  earth  beside  him.  He  had  weapons,  but  he  had  no 
power  to  use  them.  I  would  have  given  worlds  had  he  been  able 
to  do  so.  Could  he  have  shown  fight — I  could  have  slain  him 
without  scruple ;  but  when,  at  my  approach,  he  raised  his  hands 
appealingly,  and  shrieked  out  a  prayer  of  mercy,  I  felt  ashamed  of 
the  duty  I  had  undertaken.  I  felt  the  brutal  blood-thirstiness 
of  taking  life  under  such  circumstances  —  the  victim  but  a  few 
paces  off — using  no  weapons,  and  pleading  with  a  shrieking 
desperate  voice  for  that  life,  which  seemed  at  the  same  time  too 
despicable  to  demand  or  deserve  a  care. 

And  yet,  when  I  reflected  that  to  grant  his  prayer  and  take 
him  alive,  was  not  to  save  his  life,  but  to  subject  him  to  a 
death,  in  the  ignominy  of  which  I  too  must  share,  I  felt  that  he  could 
not  live.  I  rushed  upon  him  with  the  extended  pistol,  but  was 
prevented  from  using  it  by  a  singular  vision,  in  the  sudden 
appearance  of  the  poor  idiot  daughter  of  Pickett.  She  came 
from  the  door  of  a  little  cottage  by  the  road-side,  which  I  had 
not  before  seen,  and  to  which,  it  is  more  than  probable,  that 
John  llurdis  was  bending  his  steps,  as  to  a  place  of  refuge. 
To  my  horror  and  surprise  she  called  me  by  name,  and  thus 
gave  my  brother  the  first  intimation  which  he  had  of  the  person 
to  whom  he  prayed.  How  this  idiot  came  to  discover  that  which 
nobody  besides  had  suspected,  was  wonder  enough  to  me ;  and 
while  I  stood,  astounded  for  the  instant,  she  ran  forward  like 
a  thoughtless  child,  crying  as  she  came  : — 

"Oh,  Mr.  Richard,  don't  you  shoot  —  it's  Master  John  —  it's 
your  own  clear  brother  —  don't  you  Bhoot  —  don't." 

"  Brother  !"  cried  the  miserable  wretch,  with  hoarse  and  husky 
tones,  followed  by  a  chuckle  of  laughter,  which  indicated 


400  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

the  latent  hope  which  had  begun  to  kindle  in  his  breast  at  this 
discovery. 

"Away  —  I  know  you  not,  villain,"  was  my  cry  as  I  recoiled 
from  him,  and  again  lifted  the  pistol  in  deadly  aim.  The  idiot 
girl  rushed  between  us,  and  rising  on  tiptoe,  sought  to  grasp 
the  extended  hand,  which  I  was  compelled  to  raise  above  her 
reach. 

"Run,  Master  John,  run  for  dear  life,"  was  her  cry,  as  she 
clung  upon  my  shoulders.  "Run  to  the  bushes,  while  I  hold 
Mr.  Richard  —  I'll  hold  him  tight — he  can't  get  away  from  me. 
I'll  hold  him  tight  enough  while  you  run." 

The  miserable  dastard  obeyed  her  counsel ;  and  while  clinging, 
now  to  niy  arms,  and  now  to  my  legs,  she  baffled  my 
movements,  and  really  gave  him  an  opportunity,  which  a  cool, 
brave  fellow  would  have  turned  to  account,  and  most  probably  saved 
himself.  He,  in  his  alarm,  actually  rushed  into  the  woods,  in  the 
very  direction  of  the  pursuit.  Had  he  possessed  the  spirit  of 
a  man,  he  would  have  leaped  upon  his  horse,  or  upon  mine, 
and  trusted  to  the  chase  a  second  time.  Hardly  a  minute  had 
elapsed  from  his  disappearance  in  the  woods,  and  when  I  had 
just  extricated  myself  from  the  clutches  of  the  girl,  which  I 
did  with  as  little  violence  as  possible,  when  I  heard  one  shot 
and  then  another.  I  resumed  my  horse  and  hurried  to  the 
spot  whence  the  sounds  came.  One  of  our  party,  who  had 
taken  the  same  route  with  me,  had  overtaken  the  fugitive,  and 
had  fired  twice  upon  him  as  he  fled.  My  voice  trembled  when 
I  asked  the  trooper,  as  he  emerged  from  the  bush,  if  the  outlaw 
was  dead. 

"As  a  door-nail!"  was  the  reply.  I  stopped  for  no  more, 
but  turuing  the  head  of  my  horse  again,  I  renewed  the  pursuit 
of  the  second  fugitive,  whom  I  had  first  followed.  My  com 
panion  kept  with  me,  and  we  went  forward  at  full  speed.  As 
we  rode  we  heard  the  faint  accents  of  the  idiot  girl  crj'ing  in 
the  woods  for  "  Master  John  ;"  as,  here  and  there,  she  wound 
her  way  through  its  recesses,  seeking  for  him  who  could  no 
longer  answer  to  her  call.  The  sounds  were  painful  to  me,  and 
I  was  glad  to  get  out  of  hearing  of  them.  I  had  now  none 
of  those  scruples  in  the  pursuit  which  hud  beset  me  before.  My 
trial  was  over ;  and  fervently  in  my  heart  did  I  thank  God, 


CONCLUSION.  401 

and  the  stout  fellow  who  rode  beside  me,  that  my  hand  had  not 
stricken  the  cruel  blow  which  was  yet  demanded  by  justice.  I 
urged  my  horse  to  the  utmost  and  soon  left  my  companion  be 
hind.  I  felt  that  I  must  gain  upon  the  footsteps  of  the  fugitive. 
There  were  few  horses  in  the  country  of  better  bottom,  and 
more  unrelaxing  speed  than  mine.  He  proved  himself  on  this 
occasion.  Through  bog  and  branch,  he  sped ;  over  hill,  through 
dale,  until  the  road  opened  in  double  breadth  upon  us.  The 
trees  grew  more  sparsely  —  the  undergrowth  was  more  dense  iu 
patches,  and  it  was  evident  that  we  had  nearly  reached  the 
river.  In  another  moment  I  caught  a  glimpse,  not  of  it  only, 
but  of  the  man  I  pursued  ;  and  he  was  Foster.  He  looked  round 
once  ;  and  I  fancied  I  could  detect  a  smile  playing  on  his  lips. 
I  felt  loth  to  trouble  this  strange  fellow.  He  was  a  generous 
outlaw,  and  possessed  many  good  qualities.  He  had  given  me 
freely  of  his  money,  though  counterfeit,  and  had  shown  me  a 
degree  of  kindness  and  consideration,  which  made  me  hesitate, 
now  that  I  had  brought  him  to  the  post.  I  concluded  it  to  be 
impossible  that  he  should  escape  me,  and  I  summoned  him  with 
loud  tones  to  surrender,  under  a  promise  which  I  made  him,  of 
using  all  my  efforts  and  influence  to  save  him  from  the  conse 
quences  of  the  laws.  But  he  laughed  aloud,  and  pointed  to  the 
river. 

"He  will  not  venture  to  swim  it  surely,"  was  my  thought  on  the 
instant.  A  few  moments  satisfied  my  doubts.  There  was  a  pile  of 
cotton,  consisting  of  ten  or  fifteen  bags,  lying  on  the  brink  of  the 
river,  and  ready  for  transportation  to  market  whenever  the  boats 
came  by.  He  threw  himself  from  his  horse  as  he  reached  the  bags, 
and  tumbling  one  of  them  from  the  pile  into  the  stream,  he  leaped 
boldly  upon  it,  and  when  I  reached  the  same  spot,  the  current  had 
already  carried  him  full  forty  yards  on  his  way,  down  the  stream.* 
I  discharged  my  pistol  at  him  but  without  any  hope  of  touching  him 
at  that  distance  He  laughed  good-naturedly  in  return,  and  cried 
out  — 

"Ah,  Williams,  you  are  a  sad  dog,  and  something  more  of  a 
hypocrite  than  the  parson.  I  am  afraid  you  will  come  to  no 
good,  if  you  keep  on  after  this  fashion  ;  but  should  you  ever 

*  This  is  a  fact ;  such  a  mode  of  escape  would  not  readily  suggest  itself  to 
a  romancer's  invention,  but  it  did  to  that  of  a  very  great  rogue. 


402  RICHARD   HURDIS. 

get  into  a  difficulty  like  this  of  mine,  I  am  still  sufficiently  your 
friend  to  hope  that  you  may  find  as  good  a  float.  You  can  say 
to  the  owner  of  this  cotton  —  a  man  named  Baxter,  who,  I  sup 
pose,  is  one  of  your  party  this  morning  —  that  he  will  find  it 
some  five  miles  below  ;  I  shall  not  want  it  much  farther. 
Should  he  lose  it,  however,  it's  as  little  as  a  good  patriot  — as. 
it  is  said  he  is  —  should  be  ready  at  any  time  to  lose  for  his 
country.  Farewell  —  though  it  be  for  a  season  only.  We  shall 
meet  some  day  in  Arkansas,  where  I  shall  build  a*  church  in 
the  absence  of  better  business,  and  perhaps  make  you  a  convert. 
Farewell." 

Colonel  Grafton  came  up  in  time  to  hear  the  last  of  this  dis 
course  ;  and  to  wonder  and  laugh  at  the  complacent  impudence 
and  ready  thoughts  of  the  outlaw.  Foster  pulled  his  hat,  with 
a  polite  gesture,  when  he  had  finished  speaking,  and  turned  his 
eyes  from  us  in  the  direction  which  his  strange  craft  was  tak 
ing. 

"Shall  I  give  him  a  shot,  colonel?"  demanded  one  of  the 
foresters,  who  had  come  up  with  Grafton,  lifting  his  rifle  as  he 
spoke. 

"No,  no!"  was  the  reply  —  "let  him  go.  He  is  a  clever 
scoundrel  and  may  one  day  become  an  honest  man.  We  have  done 
enough  of  this  sort  of  business  this  morning,  to  keep  the  whole 
neighborhood  honest  for  some  years.  Let  us  now  return,  my  friends, 
and  bury  those  miserable  creatures  out  of  sight.  Hurdis  ! "  He  took 
me  suddenly  aside  from  the  rest,  and  said  : 

"  Hurdis,  there  is  a  girl  back  here,  who  says  that  you  have  killed 
your  own  brother.  She  affirms  it  positively." 

"  She  speaks  falsely,  Colonel  Grafton,"  was  my  reply  ;  "  I  am  not 
guilty  of  a  brother's  blood  ;  and  yet  I  may  say  to  you  that  she  has 
spoken  a  portion  of  the  truth.  A  brother  of  mine  has  been  killed 
among  the  outlaws.  Guilty  or  not  guilty  of  their  offences,  he  pays 
the  penalty  of  bad  company.  If  you  please  we  will  speak  of  him  no 
more." 


I  had  been  married  to  Mary  Easterby  about  three  years,  when 
one  day  who  should  pay  us  a  visit  but  Colonel  Grafton  and 
the  lovely  Julia,  the '  latter  far  more  lovely  than  ever.  Her 


403 

sorrows  had  sublimed  her  beauty,  and  seemed  to  give  elevation 
to  all  her  thoughts  and  actions.  The  worm  was  gnawing  at  her 
heart,  and  its  ravages  were  extending  to  her  frame ;  but  her 
cheek,  though  pale,  was  exquisitely  transparent,  and  her  eye, 
though  always  sad,  was  sometimes  enlivened  with  the  fires  of 
an  intense  spirituality  which  seemed  to  indicate  the  approxima 
tion  of  her  thoughts  to  the  spheres  and  offices  of  a  loftier  home 
than  ours.  She  lived  but  a  year  after  this  visit,  and  died  in  a 
sweet  sleep,  which  lasted  for  several  hours,  without  being  dis 
turbed  by  pain,  and  from  which  she  only  awakened  in  another 
world.  May  we  hope  that  the  loves  were  happy  there  which 
had  been  so  unblessed  on  earth. 


UNIVESSiT'-' 


THE    END. 


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